It 


THE  INHERITORS 


THE  INHERITORS 


AN  EXTRAVAGANT   STORY 
BY 

JOSEPH  CONRAD 

AND 

FORD  M.  HUEFFER 


**  Sardanapalus  builded  seven  cities  in  a  day. 
Let  us  eat,  drink  and  sleep,  for  to-morrow  we  die. 


GARDEN  OTY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  igoi,  hy 

DOUBLEDAY,  PaGE  &  Co. 


^''^CLISH  I 


C7sy 


TO 

BORYS  AND  CHRISTINA 


445418 


THE  INHERITORS 


THE    INHERITORS 

CHAPTER   ONE 

IDEAS,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  as  for  ideas " 
"Well?"  I  hazarded,  "as  for  ideas ?" 
We  went  through  the  old  gateway  and  I 
cast  a  glance  over  my  shoulder.  The  noon  sun 
was  shining  over  the  masonry,  over  the  little 
saints'  effigies,  over  the  little  fretted  canopies, 
the  grime  and  the  white  streaks  of  bird-dropping. 
"  There,"  I  said,  pointing  toward  it,  "  doesn't 
that  suggest  something  to  you?  " 

She  made  a  motion  with  her  head — half  nega- 
tive, half  contemptuous. 

"  But,"    I   stuttered,   "  the  associations — the 

ideas — the  historical  ideas " 

She  said  nothing. 

"  You  Americans,"   I   began,   but  her  smile 
stopped  me.    It  was  as  if  she  were  amused  at  the 
utterances  of  an  old  lady  shocked  by  the  habits 
[I] 


THE   INHERITORS 

ot  the  daughters  of  the  day.  It  was  the  smile  of 
a  person  who  is  confident  of  superseding  one 
fatally. 

In  conversations  of  any  length  one  of  the  par- 
ties assumes  the  superiority — superiority  of  rank, 
intellectual  or  social.  In  this  conversation  she,  if 
she  did  not  attain  to  tacitly  acknowledged  tem- 
peramental superiority,  seemed  at  least  to  claim 
it,  to  have  no  doubt  as  to  its  ultimate  according. 
I  was  unused  to  this.  I  was  a  talker,  proud  of 
my  conversational  powers. 

I  had  looked  at  her  before;  now  I  cast  a  side- 
ways, critical  glance  at  her.  I  came  out  of  my 
moodiness  to  wonder  what  type  this  was.  She 
had  good  hair,  good  eyes,  and  some  charm.  Yes. 
And  something  besides — a  something — a  some- 
thing that  was  not  an  attribute  of  her  beauty. 
The  modelling  of  her  face  was  so  perfect  and  so 
delicate  as  to  produce  an  effect  of  transparency, 
yet  there  was  no  suggestion  of  frailness;  her 
glance  had  an  extraordinary  strength  of  life.  Her 
hair  was  fair  and  gleaming,  her  cheeks  coloured 
as  if  a  warm  light  had  fallen  on  them  from  some- 
where. She  was  familiar  till  it  occurred  to  you 
that  she  was  strange. 

[2l 


CHAPTER   ONE 

"  Which  way  are  you  going?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  walk  to  Dover,"  I  answered. 

"  And  I  may  come  with  you?  " 

I  looked  at  her — intent  on  divining  her  in 
that  one  glance.  It  was  of  course  impossible. 
*'  There  will  be  time  for  analysis,"  I  thought. 

"  The  roads  are  free  to  all,"  I  said.  "  You  are 
not  an  American?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  No.  She  was  not  an 
Australian  either,  she  came  from  none  of  the  Brit- 
ish colonies. 

"  You  are  not  English,"  I  aflfirmed.  "  You 
speak  too  well."  I  was  piqued.  She  did  not 
answer.  She  smiled  again  and  I  grew  angry.  In 
the  cathedral  she  had  smiled  at  the  verger's  com- 
mendation of  particularly  abominable  restora- 
tions, and  that  smile  had  drawn  me  toward  her, 
had  emboldened  me  to  offer  deferential  and  con- 
demnatory remarks  as  to  the  plaster-of-Paris 
mouldings.  You  know  how  one  addresses  a 
young  lady  who  is  obviously  capable  of  taking 
care  of  herself.  That  was  how  I  had  come  across 
her.  She  had  smiled  at  the  gabble  of  the  cathe- 
dral guide  as  he  showed  the  obsessed  troop,  of 
which  we  had  formed  units,  the  place  of  martyr- 
[3] 


THE    INHERITORS 

dom  of  Blessed  Thomas,  and  her  smile  had  had 
just  that  quality  of  superseder's  contempt.  It  had 
pleased  me  then;  but,  now  that  she  smiled  thus 
past  me — it  was  not  quite  at  me — in  the  crooked 
highways  of  the  town,  I  was  irritated.  After  all, 
I  was  somebody;  I  was  not  a  cathedral  verger. 
I  had  a  fancy  for  myself  in  those  days — a  fancy 
that  solitude  and  brooding  had  crystallised  into  a 
habit  of  mind.  I  was  a  writer  with  high — with  the 
highest — ideals.  I  had  withdrawn  myself  from  the 
world,  lived  isolated,  hidden  in  the  country-side, 
lived  as  hermits  do,  on  the  hope  of  one  day  doing 
something — of  putting  greatness  on  paper.  She 
suddenly  fathomed  my  thoughts:  "You  write," 
she  affirmed.  I  asked  how  she  knew,  wondered 
what  she  had  read  of  mine — there  was  so  little. 

"  Are  you  a  popular  author?  "  she  asked. 

"Alas,  no!"  I  answered,  "You  must  know 
that." 

"  You  would  like  to  be?  " 

"We  should  all  of  us  like,"  I  answered; 
"  though  it  is  true  some  of  us  protest  that  we  aim 
for  higher  things." 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  musingly.  As  far  as  I  could 
tell  she  was  coming  to  some  decision.  With  an 
l4] 


CHAPTER   ONE 

instinctive  dislike  to  any  such  proceeding  as  re- 
garded myself,  I  tried  to  cut  across  her  unknown 
thoughts. 

"  But,  really — "  I  said,  "  I  am  quite  a  common- 
place topic.  Let  us  talk  about  yourself.  Where 
do  you  come  from?  " 

It  occurred  to  me  again  that  I  was  intensely 
unacquainted  with  her  type.  Here  was  the  same 
smile — as  far  as  I  could  see,  exactly  the  same 
smile.  There  are  fine  shades  in  smiles  as  in 
laughs,  as  in  tones  of  voice.  I  seemed  unable  to 
hold  my  tongue. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from?  "  I  asked.  "  You 
must  belong  to  one  of  the  new  nations.  You 
are  a  foreigner,  I'll  swear,  because  you  have  such 
a  fine  contempt  for  us.  You  irritate  me  so  that 
you  might  almost  be  a  Prussian.  But  it  is  obvi- 
ous that  you  are  of  a  new  nation  that  is  begin- 
ning to  find  itself." 

"  Oh,  we  are  to  inherit  the  earth,  if  that  is 
what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"  The  phrase  is  comprehensive,"  I  said.    I  was 

determined  not  to  give  myself  away.     "  Where 

in  the  world  do  you  come  from?"  I  repeated. 

The  question,  I  was  quite  conscious,  would  have 

[5] 


THE    INHERITORS 

sufficed,  but  in  the  hope,  I  suppose,  of  establish- 
ing my  intellectual  superiority,  I  continued: 

"  You  know,  fair  play's  a  jewel.  Now  I'm 
quite  willing  to  give  you  information  as  to  myself. 
I  have  already  told  you  the  essentials — you  ought 
to  tell  me  something.    It  would  only  be  fair  play." 

"  Why  should  there  be  any  fair  play?  "  she 
asked. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  against  that?  "  I  said. 
"  Do  you  not  number  it  among  your  national 
characteristics?  " 

"  You  really  wish  to  know  where  I  come 
from?  " 

I  expressed  light-hearted  acquiescence. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  and  uttered  some  sounds. 
I  felt  a  kind  of  unholy  emotion.  It  had  come 
like  a  sudden,  suddenly  hushed,  intense  gust  of 

wind   through   a   breathless   day.      "  What 

what! "  I  cried. 

"  I  said  I  inhabit  the  Fourth  Dimension." 

I  recovered  my  equanimity  with  the  thought 
that  I  had  been  visited  by  some  stroke  of  an  ob- 
scure and  unimportant  physical  kind. 

"  I  think  we  must  have  been  climbing  the  hill 
too  fast  for  me,"  I  said,  "  I  have  not  been  very 
[6] 


CHAPTER   ONE 

well.    I  missed  what  you  said."    I  was  certainly 
out  of  breath. 

"  I  said  I  inhabit  the  Fourth  Dimension," 
she  repeated  with  admirable  gravity. 

"  Oh,  come,"  I  expostulated,  "  this  is  playing 
it  rather  low  down.  You  walk  a  convalescent  out 
of  breath  and  then  propound  riddles  to  him." 

I  was  recovering  my  breath,  and,  with  it,  my 
inclination  to  expand.  Instead,  I  looked  at  her, 
I  was  beginning  to  understand.  It  was  obvious 
enough  that  she  was  a  foreigner  in  a  strange  land, 
in  a  land  that  brought  out  her  national  charac- 
teristics. She  must  be  of  some  race,  perhaps 
Semitic,  perhaps  Sclav — of  some  incomprehen- 
sible race.  I  had  never  seen  a  Circassian,  and 
there  used  to  be  a  tradition  that  Circassian 
women  were  beautiful,  were  fair-skinned,  and  so 
on.  What  was  repelling  in  her  was  accounted  for 
by  this  difference  in  national  point  of  view.  One 
is,  after  all,  not  so  very  remote  from  the  horse. 
What  one  does  not  understand  one  shies  at — 
finds  sinister,  in  fact.  And  she  struck  me  as  sin- 
ister. 

"  You  won't  tell  me  who  you  are?  "  I  said. 

"  I  have  done  so,"  she  answered. 
[7] 


THE    INHERITORS 

"  If  you  expect  me  to  believe  that  you  inhabit 
a  mathematical  monstrosity,  you  are  mistaken. 
You  are,  really." 

She  turned  round  and  pointed  at  the  city. 

"  Look!  "  she  said. 

We  had  climbed  the  western  hill.  Below  our 
feet,  beneath  a  sky  that  the  wind  had  swept 
clean  of  clouds,  was  the  valley;  a  broad  bowl, 
shallow,  filled  with  the  purple  of  smoke-wreaths. 
And  above  the  mass  of  red  roofs  there  soared  the 
golden  stonework  of  the  cathedral  tower.  It  was 
a  vision,  the  last  word  of  a  great  art.  I  looked 
at  her.  I  was  moved,  and  I  knew  that  the  glory 
of  it  must  have  moved  her. 

She  was  smiling.  "Look!"  she  repeated.  I 
looked. 

There  was  the  purple  and  the  red,  and  the 
golden  tower,  the  vision,  the  last  word.  She  said 
something — uttered  some  sound. 

What  had  happened?  I  don't  know.  It  all 
looked  contemptible.  One  seemed  to  see  some- 
thing beyond,  something  vaster — vaster  than 
cathedrals,  vaster  than  the  conception  of  the  gods 
to  whom  cathedrals  were  raised.  The  tower 
reeled  out  of  the  perpendicular.  One  sa\v  beyond 
[8J  .      .         .         - 


CHAPTER   ONE 

it,  not  roofs,  or  smoke,  or  hills,  but  an  unreal- 
ised, an  unrealisable  infinity  of  space. 

It  was  merely  momentary.  The  tower  filled  its 
place  again  and  I  looked  at  her. 

"  What  the  devil,"  I  said,  hysterically — "  what 
the  devil  do  you  play  these  tricks  upon  me 
for?  " 

"  You  see,"  she  answered,  "  the  rudiments  of 
the  sense  are  there." 

"  You  must  excuse  me  if  I  fail  to  understand," 
I  said,  grasping  after  fragments  of  dropped  dig- 
nity. "  I  am  subject  to  fits  of  giddiness."  I  felt 
a  need  for  covering  a  species  of  nakedness.  "  Par- 
don my  swearing,"  I  added;  a  proof  of  recovered 
equanimity. 

We  resumed  the  road  in  silence.  I  was  physi- 
cally and  mentally  shaken;  and  I  tried  to  deceive 
myself  as  to  the  cause.    After  some  time  I  said: 

"  You  insist  then  in  preserving  your — your  in- 
cognito." 

"  Oh,  I  make  no  mystery  of  myself,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  You  have  told  me  that  you  come  from  the 
Fourth  Dimension,"  I  remarked,  ironically. 

*T  come  from  the  Fourth  Dimension,"  she  said, 
19] 


THE   INHERITORS 

patiently.  She  had  the  air  of  one  in  a  position 
of  difficulty;  of  one  aware  of  it  and  ready  to 
brave  it.  She  had  the  listlessness  of  an  enlight- 
ened person  who  has  to  explain,  over  and  over 
again,  to  stupid  children  some  rudimentary  point 
of  the  multiplication  table. 

She  seemed  to  divine  my  thoughts,  to  be  aware 
of  their  very  wording.  She  even  said  "  yes  "  at 
the  opening  of  her  next  speech. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  It  is  as  if  I  were  to  try 
to  explain  the  new  ideas  of  any  age  to  a  person 
of  the  age  that  has  gone  before."  She  paused, 
seeking  a  concrete  illustration  that  would  touch 
me.  "  As  if  I  were  explaining  to  Dr.  Johnson 
the  methods  and  the  ultimate  vogue  of  the  cock- 
ney school  of  poetry." 

"  I  understand,"  I  said,  "  that  you  wish  me  to 
consider  myself  as  relatively  a  Choctaw.  But 
what  I  do  not  understand  is;  what  bearing  that 
has  upon — upon  the  Fourth  Dimension,  I  think 
you  said?  " 

"  I  will  explain,"  she  replied. 

"  But  you  must  explain  as  if  you  were  explain- 
ing to  a  Choctaw,"  I  said,  pleasantly,  "  you  must 
be  concise  and  convincing." 
[lo] 


CHAPTER   ONE 

She  answered:   "  I  will." 

She  made  a  long  speech  of  it;  I  condense.  I 
can't  remember  her  exact  words — there  were  so 
many;  but  she  spoke  like  a  book.  There  was 
something  exquisitely  piquant  in  her  choice  of 
words,  in  her  expressionless  voice.  I  seemed  to 
be  listening  to  a  phonograph  reciting  a  technical 
work.  There  was  a  touch  of  the  incongruous, 
of  the  mad,  that  appealed  to  me — the  common- 
place rolling-down  landscape,  the  straight,  white, 
undulating  road  that,  from  the  tops  of  rises, 
one  saw  running  for  miles  and  miles,  straight, 
straight,  and  so  white.  Filtering  down  through 
the  great  blue  of  the  sky  came  the  thrilling  of 
innumerable  skylarks.  And  I  was  listening  to 
a  parody  of  a  scientific  work  recited  by  a  pho- 
nograph. 

I  heard  the  nature  of  the  Fourth  Dimension — 
heard  that  it  was  an  inhabited  plane — invisible  to 
our  eyes,  but  omnipresent;  heard  that  I  had 
seen  it  when  Bell  Harry  had  reeled  before  my 
eyes.  I  heard  the  Dimensionists  described:  a 
race  clear-sighted,  eminently  practical,  incred- 
ible; with  no  ideals,  prejudices,  or  remorse;  with 
no  feeling  for  art  and  no  reverence  for  life;  free 
[II] 


THE   INHERITORS 

from  any  ethical  tradition;  callous  to  pain,  weak- 
ness, suffering  and  death,  as  if  they  had  been 
invulnerable  and  immortal.  She  did  not  say  that 
they  were  immortal,  however.  "  You  would — 
you  will — hate  us,"  she  concluded.  And  I  seemed 
only  then  to  come  to  myself.  The  power  of  her 
imagination  was  so  great  that  I  fancied  myself 
face  to  face  with  the  truth.  I  supposed  she  had 
been  amusing  herself;  that  she  should  have  tried 
to  frighten  me  was  inadmissible.  I  don't  pretend 
that  I  was  completely  at  my  ease,  but  I  said,  ami- 
ably: "  You  certainly  have  succeeded  in  making 
these  beings  hateful." 

"  I  have  made  nothing,"  she  said  with  a  faint 
smile,  and  went  on  amusing  herself.  She  would 
explain  origins,  now. 

"  Your  " — she  used  the  word  as  signifying,  I 
suppose,  the  inhabitants  of  the  country,  or  the 
populations  of  the  earth — "  your  ancestors  were 
mine,  but  long  ago  you  were  crowded  out  of  the 
Dimension  as  we  are  to-day,  you  overran  the 
earth  as  we  shall  do  to-morrow.  But  you  con- 
tracted diseases,  as  we  shall  contract  them, — 
beliefs,  traditions;  fears;  ideas  of  pity  ...  of 
love.    You  grew  luxurious  in  the  worship  of  your 

[12] 


CHAPTER   ONE 

ideals,  and  sorrowful;  you  solaced  yourselves  with 
creeds,  with  arts — you  have  forgotten!  " 

She  spoke  with  calm  conviction;  with  an  over- 
whelming and  dispassionate  assurance.  She  was 
stating  facts;  not  professing  a  faith.  We  ap- 
proached a  little  roadside  inn.  On  a  bench  be- 
fore the  door  a  dun-clad  country  fellow  was 
asleep,  his  head  on  the  table. 

"  Put  your  fingers  in  your  ears,"  my  compan- 
ion commanded. 

I  humoured  her, 

I  saw  her  lips  move.  The  countryman  started, 
shuddered,  and  by  a  clumsy,  convulsive  motion 
of  his  arms,  upset  his  quart.  He  rubbed  his  eyes. 
Before  he  had  voiced  his  emotions  we  had  passed 
on. 

"  I  have  seen  a  horse-coper  do  as  much  for  a 
stallion,"  I  commented.  "  I  know  there  are 
words  that  have  certain  effects.  But  you 
shouldn't  play  pranks  like  the  low-comedy  devil 
in  Faustus." 

"  It  isn't  good  form,  I  suppose? "  she 
sneered. 

"  It's  a  matter  of  feeling,"  I  said,  hotly,  "  the 
poor  fellow  has  lost  his  beer." 
[13] 


THE    INHERITORS 

"  What's  that  to  me?  "  she  commented,  with 
the  air  of  one  affording  a  concrete  illustration. 

"  It's  a  good  deal  to  him,"  I  answered. 

"  But  what  to  me?  " 

I  said  nothing.  She  ceased  her  exposition  im- 
mediately afterward,  growing  silent  as  suddenly 
as  she  had  become  discoursive.  It  was  rather  as 
if  she  had  learnt  a  speech  by  heart  and  had  come 
to  the  end  of  it.  I  was  quite  at  a  loss  as  to  what 
she  was  driving  at.  There  was  a  newness,  a 
strangeness  about  her;  sometimes  she  struck  me 
as  mad,  sometimes  as  frightfully  sane.  We  had  a 
meal  somewhere — a  meal  that  broke  the  current 
of  her  speech — and  then,  in  the  late  afternoon, 
took  a  by-road  and  wandered  in  secluded  valleys. 
I  had  been  ill;  trouble  of  the  nerves,  brooding,  the 
monotony  of  life  in  the  shadow  of  unsuccess.  I 
had  an  errand  in  this  part  of  the  world  and  had 
been  approaching  it  deviously,  seeking  the  nor- 
mal in  its  quiet  hollows,  trying  to  get  back  to 
my  old  self.  I  did  not  wish  to  think  of  how  I 
should  get  through  the  year — of  the  thousand  lit- 
tle things  that  matter.  So  I  talked  and  she — she 
listened  very  well. 

But  topics  exhaust  themselves  and,  at  the  last, 
[14] 


CHAPTER   ONE 

I  myself  brought  the  talk  round  to  the  Fourth 
Dimension.  We  were  sauntering  along  the  for- 
gotten valley  that  lies  between  Hardves  and  Stal- 
ling Minnis;  we  had  been  silent  for  several  min- 
utes. For  me,  at  least,  the  silence  was  pregnant 
with  the  undefinable  emotions  that,  at  times,  run 
in  currents  between  man  and  woman.  The  sun 
was  getting  low  and  it  was  shadowy  in  those 
shrouded  hollows.  I  laughed  at  some  thought, 
I  forget  what,  and  then  began  to  badger  her  with 
questions.  I  tried  to  exhaust  the  possibilities  of 
the  Dimensionist  idea,  made  grotesque  sugges- 
tions. I  said:  "  And  when  a  great  many  of  you 
have  been  crowded  out  of  the  Dimension  and 
invaded  the  earth  you  will  do  so  and  so — " 
something  preposterous  and  ironical.  She  coldly 
dissented,  and  at  once  the  irony  appeared  as 
gross  as  the  jocularity  of  a  commercial  traveller. 
Sometimes  she  signified:  "  Yes,  that  is  what  we 
shall  do;  "  signified  it  without  speaking — by  some 
gesture  perhaps,  I  hardly  know  what.  There  was 
something  impressive — something  almost  regal 
— in  this  manner  of  hers;  it  was  rather  frighten- 
ing in  those  lonely  places,  which  were  so  forgot- 
ten, so  gray,  so  closed  in.  There  was  something  of 
[15] 


THE    INHERITORS 

the  past  world  about  the  hanging  woods,  the  httle 
veils  of  unmoving  mist — as  if  time  did  not  exist 
in  those  furrows  of  the  great  world;  and  one  was 
so  absolutely  alone;  anything  might  have  hap- 
pened. I  grew  weary  of  the  sound  of  my  tongue. 
But  when  I  wanted  to  cease,  I  found  she  had  on 
me  the  effect  of  some  incredible  stimulant. 

We  came  to  the  end  of  the  valley  where  the 
road  begins  to  climb  the  southern  hill,  out  into 
the  open  air.  I  managed  to  maintain  an  uneasy 
silence.  From  her  grimly  dispassionate  reitera- 
tions I  had  attained  to  a  clear  idea,  even  to  a 
visualisation,  of  her  fantastic  conception — alle- 
gory, madness,  or  whatever  it  was.  She  certainly 
forced  it  home.  The  Dimensionists  were  to  come 
in  swarms,  to  materialise,  to  devour  like  locusts, 
to  be  all  the  more  irresistible  because  indistin- 
guishable. They  were  to  come  like  snow  in  the 
night:  in  the  morning  one  would  look  out  and 
find  the  world  white;  they  were  to  come  as  the 
gray  hairs  come,  to  sap  the  strength  of  us  as  the 
years  sap  the  strength  of  the  muscles.  As  to 
methods,  we  should  be  treated  as  we  ourselves 
treat  the  inferior  races.  There  would  be  no  fight- 
ing, no  killing;  we — our  whole  social  system— 
[i6] 


CHAPTER   ONE 

would  break  as  a  beam  snaps,  because  we  were 
worm-eaten  with  altruism  and  ethics.  We,  at  our 
worst,  had  a  certain  limit,  a  certain  stage  where 
we  exclaimed:  "No,  this  is  playing  it  too  low 
down,"  because  we  had  scruples  that  acted  like 
handicapping  weights.  She  uttered,  I  think,  only 
two  sentences  of  connected  words:  **  We  shall 
race  with  you  and  we  shall  not  be  weighted,"  and, 
"  We  shall  merely  sink  you  lower  by  our  weight." 
All  the  rest  went  like  this: 

"  But  then,"  I  would  say  .  .  .  "we  shall 
not  be  able  to  trust  anyone.  Anyone  may  be  one 
of  you.  .  .  ."  She  would  answer:  "Anyone." 
She  prophesied  a  reign  of  terror  for  us.  As  one 
passed  one's  neighbour  in  the  street  one  would 
cast  sudden,  piercing  glances  at  him. 

I  was  silent.  The  birds  were  singing  the  sun 
down.  It  was  very  dark  among  the  branches, 
and  from  minute  to  minute  the  colours  of  the 
world  deepened  and  grew  sombre. 

"  But "  I  said.     A  feeling  of  unrest  was 

creeping  over  me.  "  But  why  do  you  tell  me  all 
this?  "  I  asked.  "  Do  you  think  I  will  enlist  with 
you?" 

"  You  will  have  to  in  the  end,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
[17] 


THE   INHERITORS 

do  not  wish  to  waste  my  strength.  If  you  had  to 
work  unwittingly  you  would  resist  and  resist  and 
resist.  I  should  have  to  waste  my  power  on  you. 
As  it  is,  you  will  resist  only  at  first,  then  you  will 
begin  to  understand.  You  will  see  how  we  will 
bring  a  man  down — a  man,  you  understand, 
with  a  great  name,  standing  for  probity  and 
honour.  You  will  see  the  nets  drawing  closer  and 
closer,  and  you  will  begin  to  understand.  Then 
you  will  cease  resisting,  that  is  all." 

I  was  silent.  A  June  nightingale  began  to  sing, 
a  trifle  hoarsely.  We  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
some  signal.  The  things  of  the  night  came  and 
went,  rustled  through  the  grass,  rustled  through 
the  leafage.  At  last  I  could  not  even  see  the 
white  gleam  of  her  face.    .    .     . 

I  stretched  out  my  hand  and  it  touched  hers. 
I  seized  it  without  an  instant  of  hesitation.  "  How 
could  I  resist  you?  "  I  said,  and  heard  my  own 
whisper  with  a  kind  of  amazement  at  its  emotion. 
I  raised  her  hand.  It  was  very  cold  and  she 
seemed  to  have  no  thought  of  resistance;  but 
before  it  touched  my  lips  something  like  a  panic 
of  prudence  had  overcome  me.  I  did  not  know 
what  it  would  lead  to — and  I  remembered  that  I 
[i8] 


CHAPTER   ONE 

did  not  even  know  who  she  was.  From  the  begin- 
ning she  had  struck  me  as  sinister  and  now,  in 
the  obscurity,  her  silence  and  her  coldness  seemed 
to  be  a  passive  threatening  of  unknown  entan- 
glement.    I  let  her  hand  fall. 

"  We  must  be  getting  on,"  I  said. 

The  road  was  shrouded  and  overhung  by 
branches.  There  was  a  kind  of  translucent  light, 
enough  to  see  her  face,  but  I  kept  my  eyes  on  the 
ground.  I  was  vexed.  Now  that  it  was  past  the 
episode  appeared  to  be  a  lost  opportunity.  We 
were  to  part  in  a  moment,  and  her  rare  mental 
gifts  and  her  unfamiliar,  but  very  vivid,  beauty 
made  the  idea  of  parting  intensely  disagreeable. 
She  had  filled  me  with  a  curiosity  that  she  had 
done  nothing  whatever  to  satisfy,  and  with  a  fas- 
cination that  was  very  nearly  a  fear.  We  mounted 
the  hill  and  came  out  on  a  stretch  of  soft  com- 
mon sward.  Then  the  sound  of  our  footsteps 
ceased  and  the  world  grew  more  silent  than  ever. 
There  were  Uttle  enclosed  fields  all  round  us.  The 
moon  threw  a  wan  light,  and  gleaming  mist 
hung  in  the  ragged  hedges.  Broad,  soft  roads 
ran  away  into  space  on  every  side. 

*'  And  now  .  .  ."I  asked,  at  last,  "  shall  we 
[19] 


THE   INHERITORS 

ever  meet  again?  "  My  voice  came  huskily,  as  if 
I  had  not  spoken  for  years  and  years. 

"  Oh,  very  often,"  she  answered. 

"  Very  often? "  I  repeated.  I  hardly  knew 
whether  I  was  pleased  or  dismayed.  Through  the 
gate-gap  in  a  hedge,  I  caught  a  glimmer  of  a 
white  house  front.  It  seemed  to  belong  to  an- 
other world;  to  another  order  of  things. 

"Ah  .  .  .  here  is  CallanV' I  said.  "This 
is  where  I  was  going.     .     .     ." 

"  I  know,"  she  answered;  "  we  part  here." 

"  To  meet  again?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh  ...  to  meet  again;  why,  yes,  to  meet 
again." 


[Ml 


CHAPTER   TWO 

HER  figure  faded  into  the  darkness,  as 
pale  things  waver  down  into  deep  water, 
and  as  soon  as  she  disappeared  my  sense 
of  humour  returned.  The  episode  appeared  more 
clearly,  as  a  flirtation  with  an  enigmatic,  but  de- 
cidedly charming,  chance  travelling  companion. 
The  girl  was  a  riddle,  and  a  riddle  once  guessed 
is  a  very  trivial  thing.  She,  too,  would  be  a  very 
trivial  thing  when  I  had  found  a  solution.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  she  wished  me  to  regard  her 
as  a  symbol,  perhaps,  of  the  future — as  a  type 
of  those  who  are  to  inherit  the  earth,  in  fact. 
She  had  been  playing  the  fool  with  me,  in  her 
insolent  modernity.  She  had  wished  me  to  un- 
derstand that  I  was  old-fashioned;  that  the  frame 
of  mind  of  which  I  and  my  fellows  were  the  in- 
heritors was  over  and  done  with.  We  were  to 
be  compulsorily  retired;  to  stand  aside  superan- 
nuated. It  was  obvious  that  she  was  better 
equipped  for  the  swiftness  of  life.     She  had  a 

[21] 


THE    INHERITORS 

something — not  only  quickness  of  wit,  not  only 
ruthless  determination,  but  a  something  quite 
different  and  quite  indefinably  more  impressive. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  the  confidence  of  the  super- 
seder,  the  essential  quality  that  makes  for  the 
empire  of  the  Occidental.  But  I  was  not  a  negro 
— not  even  relatively  a  Hindoo.  I  was  some- 
body, confound  it,  I  was  somebody. 

As  an  author,  I  had  been  so  uniformly  unsuc- 
cessful, so  absolutely  unrecognised,  that  I  had  got 
into  the  way  of  regarding  myself  as  ahead  of  my 
time,  as  a  worker  for  posterity.  It  was  a  habit  of 
mind — the  only  revenge  that  I  could  take  upon 
despiteful  Fate.  This  girl  came  to  confound  me 
with  the  common  herd — she  declared  herself  to 
be  that  very  posterity  for  which  I  worked. 

She  was  probably  a  member  of  some  clique  that 
called  themselves  Fourth  Dimensionists  —  just 
as  there  had  been  pre-Raphaelites.  It  was  a  mat- 
ter of  cant  allegory.  I  began  to  wonder  how  it 
was  that  I  had  never  heard  of  them.  And  how  on 
earth  had  they  come  to  hear  of  me! 

"  She  must  have  read  something  of  mine,"  I 
found  myself  musing:  "the  Jenkins  story  per- 
haps.   It  must  have  been  the  Jenkins  story;  they 

[22] 


CHAPTER   TWO 

gave  it  a  good  place  in  their  rotten  magazine. 
She  must  have  seen  that  it  was  the  real  thing, 
and.  .  .  ."  When  one  is  an  author  one  looks 
at  things  in  that  way,  you  know. 

By  that  time  I  was  ready  to  knock  at  the  door 
of  the  great  Callan.  I  seemed  to  be  jerked  into 
the  commonplace  medium  of  a  great,  great — oh, 
an  infinitely  great — novelist's  home  life.  I  was 
led  into  a  well-Ht  drawing-room,  welcomed  by  the 
great  man's  wife,  gently  propelled  into  a  bed- 
room, made  myself  tidy,  descended  and  was  in- 
troduced into  the  sanctum,  before  my  eyes  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  lamp-light.  Callan 
was  seated  upon  his  sofa  surrounded  by  an  ad- 
miring crowd  of  very  local  personages.  I  forget 
what  they  looked  Hke.  I  think  there  was  a  man 
whose  reddish  beard  did  not  become  him  and  an- 
other whose  face  might  have  been  improved  by 
the  addition  of  a  reddish  beard;  there  was  also  an 
extremely  moody  dark  man  and  I  vaguely  recol- 
lect a  person  who  lisped. 

They  did  not  talk  much;  indeed  there  was  very 
little  conversation.  What  there  was  Callan  sup- 
plied. He — spoke — very — slowly — and — very — 
authoritatively,  hke  a  great  actor  whose  aim  is 
[23] 


THE   INHERITORS 

to  hold  the  stage  as  long  as  possible.  The  rais- 
ing of  his  heavy  eyelids  at  the  opening  door  con- 
veyed the  impression  of  a  dark,  mental  weariness; 
and  seemed  somehow  to  give  additional  length 
to  his  white  nose.  His  short,  brown  beard  was 
getting  very  grey,  I  thought.  With  his  lofty  fore- 
head and  with  his  superior,  yet  propitiatory  smile, 
I  was  of  course  familiar.  Indeed  one  saw  them 
on  posters  in  the  street.  The  notables  did  not 
want  to  talk.  They  wanted  to  be  spell-bound 
— and  they  were.  Callan  sat  there  in  an  ap- 
propriate attitude — the  one  in  which  he  was 
always  photographed.  One  hand  supported  his 
head,  the  other  toyed  with  his  watch-chain.  His 
face  was  uniformly  solemn,  but  his  eyes  were  dis- 
concertingly furtive.  He  cross-questioned  me  as 
to  my  walk  from  Canterbury;  remarked  that  the 
cathedral  was  a — magnificent — Gothic — Monu- 
ment and  set  me  right  as  to  the  lie  of  the  roads. 
He  seemed  pleased  to  find  that  I  remembered 
very  little  of  what  I  ought  to  have  noticed  on 
the  way.  It  gave  him  an  opportunity  for  the  dis- 
play of  his  local  erudition. 

"  A — remarkable  woman — used — to — live — in 
—the — cottage — next — the  —  mill  —  at  —  Stel- 
[24] 


CHAPTER   TWO 

ling,"  he  said;    "she  was  the  original  of  Kate 
Wingfield." 

"  In  your  *  Boldero?  '  "  the  chorus  chorussed. 

Remembrance  of  the  common  at  Stelling — of 
the  glimmering  white  faces  of  the  shadowy  cot- 
tages— was  like  a  cold  waft  of  mist  to  me.  I  for- 
got to  say  "  Indeed!  " 

"  She  was — a  very — remarkable — woman — 
She " 

I  found  myself  wondering  which  was  real;  the 
common  with  its  misty  hedges  and  the  blurred 
moon;  or  this  room  with  its  ranks  of  uniformly 
bound  books  and  its  bust  of  the  great  man  that 
threw  a  portentous  shadow  upward  from  its 
pedestal  behind  the  lamp. 

Before  I  had  entirely  recovered  myself,  the 
notables  were  departing  to  catch  the  last  train. 
I  was  left  alone  with  Callan. 

He  did  not  trouble  to  resume  his  attitude  for 
me,  and  when  he  did  speak,  spoke  faster. 

"  Interesting  man,  Mr.  Jinks?  "  he  said;  "  you 
recognised  him?  " 

"No,"  I  said;  "I  don't  think  I  ever  met 
him." 

Callan  looked  annoyed. 
[25] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  I  thought  I'd  got  him  pretty  well.  He's 
Hector  Steele.    In  my  '  Blanfield/  "  he  added. 

"  Indeed!  "  I  said.  I  had  never  been  able  to 
read  "  Blanfield."   "  Indeed,  ah,  yes — of  course." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause. 

"  The  whiskey  will  be  here  in  a  minute,"  he 
said,  suddenly.  "  I  don't  have  it  in  when  What- 
not's here.  He's  the  Rector,  you  know;  a  great 
temperance  man.  When  we've  had  a — a  modest 
quencher — we'll  get  to  business." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  your  letters  really  meant " 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered.  "  Oh,  here's  the 
whiskey.  Well  now,  Fox  was  down  here  the 
other  night.    You  know  Fox,  of  course?  " 

"  Didn't  he  start  the  rag  called ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Callan  answered,  hastily,  "  he's 
been  very  successful  in  launching  papers.  Now 
he's  trying  his  hand  with  a  new  one.  He's  any 
amount  of  backers — big  names,  you  know.  He's 
to  run  my  next  as  a  feuilleton.  This — this  vent- 
ure is  to  be  rather  more  serious  in  tone  than 
any  that  he's  done  hitherto.    You  understand?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said;  "but  I  don't  see  where 
I  come  in." 

Callan  took  a  meditative  sip  of  whiskey,  added 
[26] 


CHAPTER  TWO 

a  little  more  water,  a  little  more  whiskey,  and 
then  found  the  mixture  to  his  Hking. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  Fox  got  a  letter  here  to 
say  that  Wilkinson  had  died  suddenly — some  af- 
fection of  the  heart.  Wilkinson  was  to  have  writ- 
ten a  series  of  personal  articles  on  prominent 
people.  Well,  Fox  was  nonplussed  and  I  put  in 
a  word  for  you." 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  much — "  I  began. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  Callan  interrupted, 
blandly.  "I've  known  you  and  you've  known  me 
for  a  number  of  years." 

A  sudden  picture  danced  before  my  eyes — the 
portrait  of  the  Callan  of  the  old  days — the  fawn- 
ing, shady  individual,  with  the  seedy  clothes,  the 
furtive  eyes  and  the  obliging  manners. 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  said;  "  but  I  don't  see  that  that 
gives  me  any  claim." 

Callan  cleared  his  throat. 

"  The  lapse  of  time,"  he  said  in  his  grand  man- 
ner, '*  rivets  what  we  may  call  the  bands  of  asso- 
ciation." 

He  paused  to  inscribe  this  sentence  on  the  tab- 
lets of  his  memory.     It  would  be  dragged  in — 
to  form  a  purple  patch — in  his  new  serial. 
[27] 


THE    INHERITORS 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  I've  written  a  good 
deal  of  autobiographical  matter  and  it  would 
verge  upon  self-advertisement  to  do  more.  You 
know  how  much  I  dislike  that.  So  I  showed  Fox 
your  sketch  in  the  Kensington.'' 

"  The  Jenkins  story?  "  I  said.  "  How  did  you 
come  to  see  it?  " 

"  Then  send  me  the  Kensington,"  he  answered. 
There  was  a  touch  of  sourness  in  his  tone,  and  I 
remembered  that  the  Kensington  I  had  seen  had 
been  ballasted  with  seven  goodly  pages  by  Cal- 
lan  himself — seven  unreadable  packed  pages  of 
a  serial. 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  Callan  began  again,  "  you 
ought  to  know  me  very  well,  and  I  suppose  you 
are  acquainted  with  my  books.  As  for  the  rest, 
I  will  give  you  what  material  you  want." 

"  But,  my  dear  Callan,"  I  said,  "  I've  never 
tried  my  hand  at  that  sort  of  thing." 

Callan  silenced  me  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"  It  struck  both  Fox  and  myself  that  your — 
your  '  Jenkins '  was  just  what  was  wanted,"  he 
said;  "of  course,  that  was  a  study  of  a  kind 
of  broken-down  painter.  But  it  was  well 
done." 

[28] 


CHAPTER   TWO 

I  bowed  my  head.  Praise  from  Callan  was  best 
acknowledged  in  silence. 

"  You  see,  what  we  want,  or  rather  what  Fox 
wants,"  he  explained,  "  is  a  kind  of  series  of 
studies  of  celebrities  chez  eux.  Of  course,  they 
are  not  broken  down.  But  if  you  can  treat  them 
as  you  treated  Jenkins — get  them  in  their  studies, 
surrounded  by  what  in  their  case  stands  for  the 
broken  lay  figures  and  the  faded  serge  curtains — 
it  will  be  exactly  the  thing.  It  will  be  a  new  line, 
or  rather — what  is  a  great  deal  better,  mind  you 
— an  old  line  treated  in  a  slightly,  very  slightly 
different  way.    That's  what  the  public  wants." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  I  said,  "  that's  what  the  public 
wants.  But  all  the  same,  it's  been  done  time  out 
of  mind  before.  Why,  I've  seen  photographs  of 
you  and  your  armchair  and  your  pen-wiper  and 
so  on,  half  a  score  of  times  in  the  sixpenny  maga- 
zines." 

Callan  again  indicated  bland  superiority  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand. 

"  You  undervalue  yourself,"  he  said. 

I  murmured — "  Thanks." 

*'  This  is  to  be — not  a  mere  pandering  to  curi- 
osity— but  an  attempt  to  get  at  the  inside  of 
[29] 


THE    INHERITORS 

things — to  get  the  atmosphere,  so  to  speak;  not 
merely  to  catalogue  furniture." 

He  was  quoting  from  the  prospectus  of  the 
new  paper,  and  then  cleared  his  throat  for  the 
utterance  of  a  tremendous  truth. 

"  Photography — is  not — Art,"  he  remarked. 

The  fantastic  side  of  our  colloquy  began  to 
strike  me. 

"  After  all,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  why 
shouldn't  that  girl  have  played  at  being  a  denizen 
of  another  sphere?  She  did  it  ever  so  much  bet- 
ter than  Callan.    She  did  it  too  well,  I  suppose." 

"  The  price  is  very  decent,"  Callan  chimed  in. 
"  I  don't  know  how  much  per  thousand,  .  .  . 
but    .    .    ." 

I  found  myself  reckoning,  against  my  will  as  it 
were. 

"  You'll  do  it,  I  suppose?  "  he  said. 

I  thought  of  my  debts.  ..."  Why,  yes, 
I  suppose  so,"  I  answered.  "  But  who  are  the 
others  that  I  am  to  provide  with  atmospheres?  " 

Callan  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  prominent  people — soldiers, 
statesmen,  Mr.  Churchill,  the  Foreign  Minister, 
artists,  preachers — all  sorts  of  people." 
[30] 


CHAPTER   TWO 

"  All  sorts  of  glory,"  occurred  to  me. 

"  The  paper  will  stand  expenses  up  to  a  reason- 
able figure,"  Callan  reassured  me. 

"  It'll  be  a  good  joke  for  a  time,"  I  said,  "  I'm 
infinitely  obliged  to  you." 

He  warded  off  my  thanks  with  both  hands. 

"  I'll  just  send  a  wire  to  Fox  to  say  that  you 
accept,"  he  said,  rising.  He  seated  himself  at 
his  desk  in  the  appropriate  attitude.  He  had  an 
appropriate  attitude  for  every  vicissitude  of  his 
life.  These  he  had  struck  before  so  many  peo- 
ple that  even  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  he 
was  ready  for  the  kodak  wielder.  Beside  him 
he  had  every  form  of  labour-saver;  every  kind 
of  literary  knick-knack.  There  were  book-holders 
that  swung  into  positions  suitable  to  appropriate 
attitudes;  there  were  piles  of  little  green  boxes 
w-ith  red  capital  letters  of  the  alphabet  upon  them, 
and  big  red  boxes  with  black  small  letters.  There 
was  a  writing-lamp  that  cast  an  aesthetic  glow 
upon  another  appropriate  attitude — and  there 
was  one  typewriter  with  note-paper  upon  it,  and 
another  with  MS.  paper  already  in  position. 

"  My  God!  "  I  thought — "  to  these  heights  the 
Muse  soars." 

t3i] 


THE    INHERITORS 

As  I  looked  at  the  gleaming  pillars  of  the 
typewriters,  the  image  of  my  own  desk  appeared 
to  me;  chipped,  ink-stained,  gloriously  dusty.  I 
thought  that  when  again  I  lit  my  battered  old 
tin  lamp  I  should  see  ashes  and  match-ends;  a 
tobacco-jar,  an  old  gnawed  penny  penholder,  bits 
of  pink  blotting-paper,  match-boxes,  old  letters, 
and  dust  everywhere.  And  I  knew  that  my  atti- 
tude— when  I  sat  at  it — would  be  inappropriate. 

Callan  was  ticking  off  the  telegram  upon  his 
machine.  "  It  will  go  in  the  morning  at  eight," 
he  said. 


[32] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

TO  encourage  me,  I  suppose,  Callan  gave 
me  the  proof-sheets  of  his  next  to  read 
in  bed.  The  thing  was  so  bad  that  it 
nearly  sickened  me  of  him  and  his  jobs.  I  tried 
to  read  the  stuff;  to  read  it  conscientiously,  to 
read  myself  to  sleep  with  it.  I  was  under  obli- 
gations to  old  Cal  and  I  wanted  to  do  him  justice, 
but  the  thing  was  impossible.  I  fathomed  a  sort 
of  a  plot.  It  dealt  in  fratricide  with  a  touch  of 
adultery;  a  Great  Moral  Purpose  loomed  in  the 
background.  It  would  have  been  a  dully  readable 
novel  but  for  that;  as  it  was,  it  was  intolerable. 
It  was  amazing  that  Cal  himself  could  put  out 
such  stuff;  that  he  should  have  the  impudence. 
He  was  not  a  fool,  not  by  any  means  a  fool.  It 
revolted  me  more  than  a  little. 

I  came  to  it  out  of  a  different  plane  of  thought. 
I  may  not  have  been  able  to  write  then — or  I 
may;  but  I  did  know  enough  to  recognise  the 
flagrantly,  the  indecently  bad,  and,  upon  my  soul, 
the  idea  that  I,  too,  must  cynically  offer  this  sort 
[33] 


THE    INHERITORS 

of  stuff  if  I  was  ever  to  sell  my  tens  of  thousands 
very  nearly  sent  me  back  to  my  solitude.  Callan 
had  begun  very  much  as  I  was  beginning  now; 
he  had  even,  I  believe,  had  ideals  in  his  youth 
and  had  starved  a  little.  It  was  rather  trying  to 
think  that  perhaps  I  was  really  no  more  than 
another  Callan,  that,  when  at  last  I  came  to  re- 
view my  life,  I  should  have  much  such  a  record 
to  look  back  upon.  It  disgusted  me  a  little,  and 
when  I  put  out  the  light  the  horrors  settled  down 
upon  me. 

I  woke  in  a  shivering  frame  of  mind,  ashamed 
to  meet  Callan's  eye.  It  was  as  if  he  must 
be  aware  of  my  over-night  thoughts,  as  if  he 
must  think  me  a  fool  who  quarrelled  with  my 
victuals.  He  gave  no  signs  of  any  such  knowl- 
edge—  was  dignified,  cordial;  discussed  his 
breakfast  with  gusto,  opened  his  letters,  and  so 
on.  An  anaemic  amanuensis  was  taking  notes  for 
appropriate  replies.  How  could  I  tell  him  that 
I  would  not  do  the  work,  that  I  was  too  proud 
and  all  the  rest  of  it?  He  would  have  thought 
me  a  fool,  would  have  stiffened  into  hostility,  I 
should  have  lost  my  last  chance.  And,  in  the 
broad  light  of  day,  I  was  loath  to  do  that. 
[54] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

He  began  to  talk  about  indifferent  things;  we 
glided  out  on  to  a  current  of  mediocre  conver- 
sation. The  psychical  moment,  if  there  were  any 
such,  disappeared. 

Someone  bearing  my  name  had  written  to  ex- 
press an  intention  of  offering  personal  worship 
that  afternoon.  The  prospect  seemed  to  please  the 
great  Cal.  He  was  used  to  such  things;  he  found 
them  pay,  I  suppose.  We  began  desultorily  to 
discuss  the  possibility  of  the  writer's  being  a  rela- 
tion of  mine;  I  doubted.  I  had  no  relations  that 
I  knew  of;  there  was  a  phenomenal  old  aunt  who 
had  inherited  the  acres  and  respectability  of  the 
Etchingham  Grangers,  but  she  was  not  the  kind 
of  person  to  worship  a  novelist.  I,  the  poor  last 
of  the  family,  was  without  the  pale,  simply  be- 
cause I,  too,  was  a  novelist.  I  explained  these 
things  to  Callan  and  he  commented  on  them, 
found  it  strange  how  small  or  how  large,  I  forget 
which,  the  world  was.  Since  his  own  apotheosis 
shoals  of  Callans  had  claimed  relationship. 

I  ate  my  breakfast.     Afterward,  we  set  about 

the  hatching  of  that  article — the  thought  of  it 

sickens  me  even  now.     You  will  find  it  in  the 

volume  along  with  the  others;  you  may  see  how 

[35] 


THE    INHERITORS 

I  lugged  in  Callan's  surroundings,  his  writing- 
room,  his  dining-room,  the  romantic  arbour  in 
which  he  found  it  easy  to  write  love-scenes,  the 
clipped  trees  like  peacocks  and  the  trees  clipped 
Hke  bears,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  background  for 
appropriate  attitudes.  He  was  satisfied  with  any 
arrangements  of  words  that  suggested  a  gentle 
awe  on  the  part  of  the  writer. 

"  Yes,  jes,"  he  said  once  or  twice,  "  that's  just 
the  touch,  just  the  touch — very  nice.  But  don't 
you  think.    .    .    ."    We  lunched  after  some  time. 

I  was  so  happy.  Quite  pathetically  happy. 
It  had  come  so  easy  to  me.  I  had  doubted  my 
ability  to  do  the  sort  of  thing;  but  it  had  writ- 
ten itself,  as  money  spends  itself,  and  I  was  going 
to  earn  money  like  that.  The  whole  of  my  past 
seemed  a  m^take — a  childishness.  I  had  kept 
out  of  this  sort  of  thing  because  I  had  thought  it 
below  me;  I  had  kept  out  of  it  and  had  starved 
my  body  and  warped  my  mind.  Perhaps  I  had 
even  damaged  my  work  by  this  isolation.  To  un- 
derstand life  one  must  live — and  I  had  only 
brooded.    But,  by  Jove,  I  would  try  to  live  now. 

Callan  had  retired  for  his  accustomed  siesta 
and  I  was  smoking  pipe  after  pipe  over  a  con- 
[36] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

foundedly  bad  French  novel  that  I  had  found  in 
the  book-shelves.  I  must  have  been  dozing.  A 
voice  from  behind  my  back  announced: 

"  Miss  Etchingham  Granger!  "  and  added — 
**  Mr.  Callan  will  be  down  directly."  I  laid  down 
my  pipe,  wondered  whether  I  ought  to  have  been 
smoking  when  Cal  expected  visitors,  and  rose  to 
my  feet. 

"  You  !  "  I  said,  sharply.  She  answered,  "  You 
see."  She  was  smiling.  She  had  been  so  much 
in  my  thoughts  that  I  was  hardly  surprised — the 
thing  had  even  an  air  of  pleasant  inevitability 
about  it. 

"  You  must  be  a  cousin  of  mine,"  I  said,  "  the 
name " 

"  Oh,  call  it  sister,"  she  answ^ered. 

I  was  feeling  inclined  for  farce,  if  blessed  chance 
would  throw  it  in  my  way.  You  see,  I  was  going 
to  live  at  last,  and  Hfe  for  me  meant  irrespon- 
sibility. 

"  Ah!  "  I  said,  ironically,  "  you  are  going  to  be 
a  sister  to  me,  as  they  say."  She  might  have 
come  the  bogy  over  me  last  night  in  the  moon- 
light, but  now  .  .  .  There  was  a  spice  of  dan- 
ger about  it,  too,  just  a  touch  lurking  some- 
[37] 


THE    INHERITORS 

where.  Besides,  she  was  good-looking  and  well 
set  up,  and  I  couldn't  see  what  could  touch  me. 
Even  if  it  did,  even  if  I  got  into  a  mess,  I  had 
no  relatives,  not  even  a  friend,  to  be  worried 
about  me.  I  stood  quite  alone,  and  I  half  relished 
the  idea  of  getting  into  a  mess — it  would  be  part 
of  life,  too.  I  was  going  to  have  a  little  money, 
and  she  excited  my  curiosity.  I  was  tingling 
to  know  what  she  was  really  at. 

"  And  one  might  ask,"  I  said,  "  what  you  are 
doing  in  this — in  this.  ..."  I  was  at  a  loss  for 
a  word  to  describe  the  room — the  smugness 
parading  as  professional  Bohemianism. 

"  Oh,  I  am  about  my  own  business,"  she 
baid,  "  I  told  you  last  night — have  you  for- 
gotten? " 

'*  Last  night  you  were  to  inherit  the  earth,"  I 
reminded  her,  "  and  one  doesn't  start  in  a  place 
like  this.  Now  I  should  have  gone — well — I 
should  have  gone  to  some  politician's  house — a 
cabinet  minister's — say  to  Gurnard's.  He's  the 
coming  man,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  answered,  "  he's  the  coming 
man." 

You  will  remember  that,  in  those  days,  Gurnard 
[38] 


CHAPTER  THREE 
was  only  the  dark  horse  of  :he  miniiir/.  I  knew 
Uttle  enough  of  these  things,  despised  pclincs 
generally;  they  simply  cidr.':  ir.teres:  ~.e.  Gur- 
nard I  disliked  platonicaily ;  perhaps  because  his 
face  ^^-a5  a  little  enigmatic — a  little  repulsive. 
The  countr\%  then,  was  in  the  position  of  having 
no  Opposition  and  a  Cabinet  with  two  distinct 
strains  in  it — the  Churchill  and  the  Gurnard — 
and  Gurnard  was  the  dark  horse. 

"  Oh.  you  should  join  your  flats,"  I  said,  pleas- 
antly. "  If  he's  the  coming  man,  where  do  yoa 
come  in?  .  .  .  Unless  he,  too,  is  a  Dimensicm- 
ist." 

"  Oh.  both — both."  she  answered.  I  admired 
the  tranquillity  with  which  she  converted  my 
points  into  her  own.  And  I  was  ver\-  happy — it 
struck  me  as  a  pleasant  sort  of  fooling.    .    .    . 

"  I  suppose  you  will  let  me  know  some  day 
who  you  are?  "  I  said. 

"  I  have  told  you  several  times."  she  answered. 

"  Oh.  you  won't  frighten  me  to-day,"  I  as- 
serted, "  not  here,  you  know,  and  anyhow,  why 
should  you  want  to?  " 

"  I  have  told  you."  she  said  again. 

'*  You've  told  me  vou  were  mv  sister."  I  said; 
[39] 


THE    INHERITORS 

*'  but  my  sister  died  years  and  years  ago.  Still, 
if  it  suits  you,  if  you  want  to  be  somebody's  sis- 
ter   ..." 

"  It  suits  me,"  she  answered — "  I  want  to  be 
placed,  you  see." 

I  knew  that  my  name  was  good  enough  to 
place  anyone.  We  had  been  the  Grangers  of 
Etchingham  since — oh,  since  the  flood.  And  if 
the  girl  wanted  to  be  my  sister  and  a  Granger, 
why  the  devil  shouldn't  she,  so  long  as  she  would 
let  me  continue  on  this  footing?  I  hadn't  talked 
to  a  woman — not  to  a  well  set-up  one — for  ages 
and  ages.  It  was  as  if  I  had  come  back  from 
one  of  the  places  to  which  younger  sons  exile 
themselves,  and  for  all  I  knew  it  might  be  the 
correct  thing  for  girls  to  elect  brothers  nowadays 
in  one  set  or  another. 

"  Oh,  tell  me  some  more,"  I  said,  "  one  likes 
to  know  about  one's  sister.  You  and  the  Right 
Honourable  Charles  Gurnard  are  Dimensionists, 
and  who  are  the  others  of  your  set?  " 

"  There  is  only  one,"  she  answered.  And 
would  you  believe  it! — it  seems  he  was  Fox,  the 
editor  of  my  new  paper. 

"  You  select  your  characters  with  charming  in- 
[40] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

discriminateness,"  I  said.  "  Fox  is  only  a  sort 
of  toad,  you  know — he  won't  get  far." 

"  Oh,  he'll  go  far,"  she  answered,  "  but  he 
won't  get  there.    Fox  is  fighting  against  us." 

"  Oh,  so  you  don't  dwell  in  amity?  "  I  said. 
"  You  fight  for  your  own  hands." 

"  We  fight  for  our  own  hands,"  she  answered, 
"  I  shall  throw  Gurnard  over  when  he's  pulled 
the  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire." 

I  was  beginning  to  get  a  little  tired  of  this. 
You  see,  for  me,  the  scene  was  a  veiled  flirtation 
and  I  wanted  to  get  on.  But  I  had  to  listen  to 
her  fantastic  scheme  of  things.  It  was  really  a 
duel  between  Fox,  the  Journal-founder,  and  Gur- 
nard, the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  Fox, 
with  Churchill,  the  Foreign  Minister,  and  his  sup- 
porters, for  pieces,  played  what  he  called  "  the 
Old  Morality  business  "  against  Gurnard,  who 
passed  for  a  cynically  immoral  politician. 

I  grew  more  impatient.  I  wanted  to  get  out 
of  this  stage  into  something  more  personal.  I 
thought  she  invented  this  sort  of  stuf?  to  keep 
me  from  getting  at  her  errand  at  Callan's.  But 
I  didn't  want  to  know  her  errand;  I  wanted  to 
make  love  to  her.  As  for  Fox  and  Gurnard  and 
[41] 


THE    INHERITORS 

Churchill,  the  Foreign  Minister,  who  really  was 
a  sympathetic  character  and  did  stand  for  po- 
litical probity,  she  might  be  uttering  allegorical 
truths,  but  I  was  not  interested  in  them.  I 
wanted  to  start  some  topic  that  would  lead  away 
from  this  Dimensionist  farce. 

"  My  dear  sister,"  I  began.  .  .  .  Callan  al- 
ways moved  about  like  a  confounded  eavesdrop- 
per, wore  carpet  slippers,  and  stepped  round  the 
corners  of  screens.  I  expect  he  got  copy  like 
that. 

"  So,  she's  your  sister?  "  he  said  suddenly,  from 
behind  me.  "  Strange  that  you  shouldn't  recog- 
nise the  handwriting.    .    .    ." 

"  Oh,  we  don't  correspond,"  I  said  light-heart- 
edly, ''  we  are  so  different."  I  wanted  to  take  a 
rise  out  of  the  creeping  animal  that  he  was.  He 
confronted  her  blandly. 

"  You  must  be  the  Httle  girl  that  I  remember," 
he  said.  He  had  known  my  parents  ages  ago. 
That,  indeed,  was  how  I  came  to  know  him;  I 
wouldn't  have  chosen  him  for  a  friend.  "  I 
thought  Granger  said  you  were  dead  .  .  .  but 
one  gets  confused.    .    .    ." 

"  Oh,  we  see  very  little  of  each  other,"  she  an- 
[42] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

swered.  *'  Arthur  might  have  said  I  was  dead — 
he's  capable  of  anything,  you  know."  She  spoke 
with  an  assumption  of  sisterly  indifference  that 
was  absolutely  striking.  I  began  to  think  she 
must  be  an  actress  of  genius,  she  did  it  so  well. 
She  zvas  the  sister  who  had  remained  within  the 
pale;  I,  the  rapscallion  of  a  brother  whose  vaga- 
ries were  trying  to  his  relations.  That  was  the 
note  she  struck,  and  she  maintained  it.  I  didn't 
know  what  the  deuce  she  was  driving  at,  and  I 
didn't  care.  These  scenes  with  a  touch  of  mad- 
ness appealed  to  me.  I  was  going  to  live,  and 
here,  apparently,  was  a  woman  ready  to  my  hand. 
Besides,  she  was  making  a  fool  of  Callan,  and  that 
pleased  me.  His  patronising  manners  had  irri- 
tated me. 

I  assisted  rather  silently.  They  began  to  talk 
of  mutual  acquaintances — as  one  talks.  They 
both  seemed  to  know  everyone  in  this  world. 
She  gave  herself  the  airs  of  being  quite  in  the 
inner  ring;  alleged  familiarity  with  quite  impos- 
sible persons,  with  my  portentous  aunt,  with 
Cabinet  Ministers — that  sort  of  people.  They 
talked  about  them — she,  as  if  she  lived  among 
them;  he,  as  if  he  tried  very  hard  to  live  up  to 
them. 

[43] 


THE   INHERITORS 

She  affected  reverence  for  his  person,  pHed  him 
with  comphments  that  he  swallowed  raw — hor- 
ribly raw.  It  made  me  shudder  a  little;  it  was 
tragic  to  see  the  little  great  man  confronted  with 
that  woman.  It  shocked  me  to  think  that,  really, 
I  must  appear  much  like  him — must  have  looked 
like  that  yesterday.  He  was  a  little  uneasy,  I 
thought,  made  little  confidences  as  if  in  spite  of 
himself;  little  confidences  about  the  Hour,  the 
new  paper  for  which  I  was  engaged.  It  seemed 
to  be  run  by  a  small  gang  with  quite  a  number 
of  assorted  axes  to  grind.  There  was  some  for- 
eign financier — a  person  of  position  whom  she 
knew  (a  noble  man  in  the  best  sense,  Callan  said) ; 
there  was  some  politician  (she  knew  him  too,  and 
he  was  equally  excellent,  so  Callan  said),  Mr. 
Churchill  himself,  an  artist  or  so,  an  actor  or  so 
— and  Callan.  They  all  wanted  a  little  backing, 
so  it  seemed.  Callan,  of  course,  put  it  in  another 
way.  The  Great — Moral — Purpose  turned  up,  I 
don't  know  why.  He  could  not  think  he  was 
taking  me  in  and  she  obviously  knew  more  about 
the  people  concerned  than  he  did.  But  there  it 
was,  looming  large,  and  quite  as  farcical  as  all  the 
rest  of  it.  The  foreign  financier — they  called  him 
[44] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

the  Due  de  Mersch — was  by  way  of  being  a 
philanthropist  on  megalomaniac  lines.  For  some 
international  reason  he  had  been  allowed  to  pos- 
sess himself  of  the  pleasant  land  of  Greenland. 
There  was  gold  in  it  and  train-oil  in  it  and  other 
things  that  paid — but  the  Due  de  Mersch  was 
not  thinking  of  that.  He  was  first  and  foremost 
a  State  Founder,  or  at  least  he  was  that  after  be- 
ing titular  ruler  of  some  little  spot  of  a  Teutonic 
grand-duchy.  No  one  of  the  great  powers  would 
let  any  other  of  the  great  powers  possess  the 
country,  so  it  had  been  handed  over  to  the  Due 
de  Mersch,  who  had  at  heart,  said  Cal,  the  glori- 
ous vision  of  founding  a  model  state — the  model 
state,  in  which  washed  and  broadclothed  Esqui- 
maux would  live,  side  by  side,  regenerated  lives, 
enfranchised  equals  of  choicely  selected  younger 
sons  of  whatever  occidental  race.  It  was  that  sort 
of  thing.  I  was  even  a  little  overpowered,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  Callan  was  its  trumpeter; 
there  was  something  fine  about  the  conception 
and  Churchill's  acquiescence  seemed  to  guarantee 
an  honesty  in  its  execution. 

The  Due  de  Mersch  wanted  money,  and  he 
wanted  to  run  a  railway  across  Greenland.    His 
[45] 


THE    INHERITORS 

idea  was  that  the  British  public  should  supply  the 
money  and  the  British  Government  back  the  rail- 
way, as  they  did  in  the  case  of  a  less  philanthropic 
Suez  Canal.  In  return  he  offered  an  eligible  har- 
bour and  a  strip  of  coast  at  one  end  of  the  line; 
the  British  public  was  to  be  repaid  in  casks  of 
train-oil  and  gold  and  with  the  consciousness  of 
having  aided  in  letting  the  light  in  upon  a  dark 
spot  of  the  earth.  So  the  Due  de  Mersch  started 
the  Hour.  The  Hour  was  to  extol  the  Due 
de  Mersch's  moral  purpose;  to  pat  the  Gov- 
ernment's back;  influence  public  opinion;  and 
generally  advance  the  cause  of  the  System  for  the 
Regeneration  of  the  Arctic  Regions. 

I  tell  the  story  rather  flippantly,  because  I 
heard  it  from  Callan,  and  because  it  was  impos- 
sible to  take  him  seriously.  Besides,  I  was  not 
very  much  interested  in  the  thing  itself.  But  it 
did  interest  me  to  see  how  deftly  she  pumped 
him — squeezed  him  dry. 

I  was  even  a  little  alarmed  for  poor  old  Gal. 
After  all,  the  man  had  done  me  a  service;  had 
got  me  a  job.  As  for  her,  she  struck  me  as  a 
potentially  dangerous  person.  One  couldn't  tell, 
she  might  be  some  adventuress,  or  if  not  that,  a 
[46] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

speculator  who  would  damage  Cal's  little 
schemes.  I  put  it  to  her  plainly  afterward;  and 
quarrelled  with  her  as  well  as  I  could.  I  drove  her 
down  to  the  station.  Callan  must  have  been  dis- 
tinctly impressed  or  he  would  never  have  had  out 
his  trap  for  her. 

"  You  know,"  I  said  to  her,  "  I  won't  have  you 
play  tricks  with  Callan — not  while  you're  using 
my  name.  It's  very  much  at  your  service  as  far 
as  I'm  concerned — but,  confound  it,  if  you're 
going  to  injure  him  I  shall  have  to  show  you  up 
— to  tell  him." 

"  You  couldn't,  you  know,"  she  said,  perfectly 
calmly,  "  you've  let  yourself  in  for  it.  He 
wouldn't  feel  pleased  with  you  for  letting  it  go 
as  far  as  it  has.  You'd  lose  your  job,  and  you're 
going  to  live,  you  know — you're  going  to 
live.    .    .    ." 

I  was  taken  aback  by  this  veiled  threat  in  the 
midst  of  the  pleasantry.  It  wasn't  fair  play — not 
at  all  fair  play.  I  recovered  some  of  my  old  alarm, 
remembered  that  she  really  was  a  dangerous  per- 
son; that    .    .    . 

"  But  I  sha'n't  hurt  Callan,"  she  said,  suddenly, 
"  you  may  make  your  mind  easy." 
[47] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  You  really  won't?  "  I  asked. 

"  Really  not,"  she  answered.  It  relieved  me  to 
believe  her.  I  did  not  want  to  quarrel  with  her. 
You  see,  she  fascinated  me,  she  seemed  to  act  as 
a  stimulant,  to  set  me  tingling  somehow — and 
to  baffle  me.  .  .  .  And  there  was  truth  in 
what  she  said.  I  had  let  myself  in  for  it,  and  I 
didn't  want  to  lose  Callan's  job  by  telling  him 
I  had  made  a  fool  of  him. 

"  I  don't  care  about  anything  else,"  I  said. 
She  smiled. 


t48] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

I  WENT  up  to  town  bearing  the  Callan  ar- 
ticle, and  a  letter  of  warm  commendation  from 
Callan  to  Fox.  I  had  been  very  docile;  had 
accepted  emendations;  had  lavished  praise,  had 
been  unctuous  and  yet  had  contrived  to  retain 
the  dignified  savour  of  the  editorial  "we."  Cal- 
lan himself  asked  no  more. 

I  was  directed  to  seek  Fox  out — to  find  him 
immediately.  The  matter  was  growing  urgent. 
Fox  was  not  at  the  office — the  brand  new  office 
that  I  afterward  saw  pass  through  the  succeed- 
ing stages  of  business-like  comfort  and  dusty 
neglect.  I  was  directed  to  ask  for  him  at  the 
stage  door  of  the  Buckingham. 

I  waited  in  the  doorkeeper's  glass  box  at  the 
Buckingham.  I  was  eyed  by  the  suspicious  com- 
missionaire with  the  contempt  reserved  for  rest- 
ing actors.  Resting  actors  are  hungry  suppliants 
as  a  rule.  Call-boys  sought  Mr.  Fox.  "  Anybody 
seen  Mr.  Fox?  He's  gone  to  lunch." 
[49] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"Mr.  Fox  is  out,"  said  the  commissionaire. 

I  explained  that  the  matter  was  urgent.  More 
call-boys  disappeared  through  the  folding  doors. 
Unenticing  personages  passed  the  glass  box, 
casting  hostile  glances  askance  at  me  on  my  high 
stool.     A  message  came  back. 

"  If  it's  Mr.  Etchingham  Granger,  he's  to  fol- 
low Mr.  Fox  to  Mrs.  Hartly's  at  once." 

I  followed  Mr.  Fox  to  Mrs.  Hartly's — to  a 
little  flat  in  a  neighbourhood  that  I  need  not 
specify.  The  eminent  journalist  was  lunching 
with  the  eminent  actress.  A  husband  was  in  at- 
tendance —  a  nonentity  with  a  heavy  yellow 
moustache,  who  hummed  and  hawed  over  his 
watch. 

Mr,  Fox  was  full-faced,  with  a  persuasive,  per- 
emptory manner.  Mrs.  Hartly  was — well,  she 
was  just  Mrs.  Hartly.  You  remember  how  we 
all  fell  in  love  with  her  figure  and  her  manner,  and 
her  voice,  and  the  way  she  used  her  hands.  She 
broke  her  bread  with  those  very  hands;  spoke 
to  her  husband  with  that  very  voice,  and  rose 
from  table  with  that  same  graceful  manage- 
ment of  her  limp  skirts.  She  made  eyes  at  me; 
at  her  husband;  at  little  Fox,  at  the  man  who 
[50] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

handed  the  asparagus — great  round  grey  eyes. 
She  was  just  the  same.  The  curtain  never  fell  on 
that  eternal  dress  rehearsal.  I  don't  wonder  the 
husband  was  forever  looking  at  his  watch. 

Mr.  Fox  was  a  friend  of  the  house.  He  dis- 
pensed with  ceremony,  read  my  manuscript  over 
his  Roquefort,  and  seemed  to  find  it  add  to  the 
savour. 

"  You  are  going  to  do  me  for  Mr.  Fox,"  Mrs. 
Hartly  said,  turning  her  large  grey  eyes  upon 
me.  They  were  very  soft.  They  seemed  to  send 
out  waves  of  intense  sympatheticism.  I  thought 
of  those  others  that  had  shot  out  a  razor-edged 
ray. 

"  Why,"  I  answered,  "  there  was  some  talk  of 
my  doing  somebody  for  the  Hour" 

Fox  put  my  manuscript  under  his  empty 
tumbler. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  sharply.  "  He  will  do,  I  think. 
H'm,  yes.     Why,  yes." 

"  You're  a  friend  of  Mr.  Callan's,  aren't  you?  " 
Mrs.  Hartly  asked,  "  What  a  dear,  nice  man  he 
is!  You  should  see  him  at  rehearsals.  You 
know  I'm  doing  his  'Boldero';  he's  given  me  a 
perfectly  lovely  part — perfectly  lovely.  And  the 
[51] 


THE    INHERITORS 

trouble  he  takes.     He  tries  every  chair  on  the 
stage." 

"H'm;  yes,"  Fox  interjected,  "he  Hkes  to 
have  his  own  way." 

"  We  all  like  that,"  the  great  actress  said.  She 
was  quoting  from  her  first  great  part.  I  thought 
— but,  perhaps,  I  was  mistaken — that  all  her  ut- 
terances were  quotations  from  her  first  great  part. 
Her  husband  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Are  you  coming  to  this  confounded  flower 
show?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  turning  her  mysterious  eyes 
upon  him,  "  I'll  go  and  get  ready." 

She  disappeared  through  an  inner  door.  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  the  pistol-shot  and  the  heavy  fall 
from  the  next  room.  I  forgot  that  it  was  not  the 
end  of  the  fifth  act. 

Fox  put  my  manuscript  into  his  breast  pocket. 

"  Come  along.  Granger,"  he  said  to  me,  "  I 
want  to  speak  to  you.  You'll  have  plenty  of 
opportunity  for  seeing  Mrs.  Hartly,  I  expect. 
She's  tenth  on  your  list.     Good-day,  Hartly." 

Hartly's  hand  was  wavering  between  his 
moustache  and  his  watch  pocket. 

"  Good-dav,"  he  said  sulkily. 
[  52  ] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

"  You  must  come  and  see  me  again,  Mr. 
Granger,"  Mrs.  Hartly  said  from  the  door. 
"Come  to  the  Buckingham  and  see  how  we're 
getting  on  with  your  friend's  play.  We  must 
have  a  good  long  talk  if  you're  to  get  my  local 
colour,  as  Mr,  Fox  calls  it." 

"  To  gild  refined  gold  ;  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet " 

I  quoted  banally. 

"  That's  it,"  she  said,  with  a  tender  smile.  She 
was  fastening  a  button  in  her  glove.  I  doubt  her 
recognition  of  the  quotation. 

When  we  were  in  our  hansom.  Fox  began: 
"  I'm  relieved  by  what  I've  seen  of  your  copy. 
One  didn't  expect  this  sort  of  thing  from  you. 
You  think  it  a  bit  below  you,  don't  you?  Oh, 
I  know,  I  know.  You  literary  people  are  usually 
so  impracticable;  you  know  what  I  mean.  Cal- 
lan  said  you  were  the  man.  Callan  has  his  uses; 
but  one  has  something  else  to  do  with  one's 
paper.  I've  got  interests  of  my  own.  But  you'll 
do;  it's  all  rigJtt.  You  don't  mind  my  being 
candid,  do  you,  now?  "  I  muttered  that  I  rather 
hked  it. 

[53] 


THE    INHERITORS 

"  Well  then,"  he  went  on,  "  now  I  see  my  way." 

"  I'm  glad  you  do,"  I  murmured.  "  I  wish  I 
did." 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  all  right,"  Fox  comforted. 
"  I  dare  say  Callan  has  rather  sickened  you  of 
the  job;  particularly  if  you  ain't  used  to  it.  But 
you  won't  find  the  others  as  trying.  There's 
Churchill  now,  he's  your  next.  You'll  have  to 
mind  him.  You'll  find  him  a  decent  chap.  Not 
a  bit  of  side  on  him." 

"What  Churchill?  "I  asked. 

"  The  Foreign  Minister." 

"  The  devil,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  you'll  find  him  all  right,"  Fox  reassured; 
"  you're  to  go  down  to  his  place  to-morrow.  It's 
all  arranged.  Here  we  are.  Hop  out."  He 
suited  his  own  action  to  his  words  and  ran  nimbly 
up  the  new  terra-cotta  steps  of  the  Hour's  home. 
He  left  me  to  pay  the  cabman. 

When  I  rejoined  him  he  was  giving  direc- 
tions to  an  invisible  somebody  through  folding 
doors. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  breathlessly.  "  Can't 
see  him,"  he  added  to  a  little  boy,  who  held  a  card 
in  his  hands.  "  Tell  him  to  go  to  Mr.  Evans, 
[54] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

One's  life  isn't  one's  own  here,"  he  went  on, 
when  he  had  reached  his  own  room. 

It  was  a  palatial  apartment  furnished  in  white 
and  gold — Louis  Quinze,  or  something  of  the 
sort — with  very  new  decorations  after  Watteau 
covering  the  walls.  The  process  of  disfiguration, 
however,  had  already  begun.  A  roll  desk  of  the 
least  possible  Louis  Quinze  order  stood  in  one  of 
the  tall  windows;  the  carpet  was  marked  by  muddy 
footprints,  and  a  matchboard  screen  had  been  run 
across  one  end  of  the  room. 

**'  Hullo,  Evans,"  Fox  shouted  across  it,  "  just 
see  that  man  from  Grant's,  will  you?  Heard 
from  the  Central  News  yet?  " 

He  was  looking  through  the  papers  on  the 
desk. 

"  Not  yet,  I've  just  rung  them  up  for  the  fifth 
time,"  the  answer  came. 

"  Keep  on  at  it,"  Fox  exhorted. 

"  Here's  Churchill's  letter,"  he  said  to  me. 
"  Have  an  arm-chair;  those  blasted  things  are 
too  uncomfortable  for  anything.  Make  yourself 
comfortable.     I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

I  took  an  arm-chair  and  addressed  myself  to 
the  Foreign  Minister's  letter.  It  expressed  bored 
[55] 


THE   INHERITORS 

tolerance  of  a  potential  interviewer,  but  it  seemed 
to  please  Fox.  He  ran  into  the  room,  snatched 
up  a  paper  from  his  desk,  and  ran  out  again. 

"  Read  Churchill's  letter?  "  he  asked,  in  pass- 
ing. "  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  a  minute."  I 
don't  know  what  he  expected  me  to  do  with 
it — kiss  the  postage  stamp,  perhaps. 

At  the  same  time,  it  was  pleasant  to  sit  there 
idle  in  the  midst  of  the  hurry,  the  breathlessness. 
I  seemed  to  be  at  last  in  contact  with  real  life, 
with  the  life  that  matters.  I  was  somebody,  too. 
Fox  treated  me  with  a  kind  of  deference — as  if  I 
were  a  great  unknown.  His  "  you  literary  men  " 
was  pleasing.  It  was  the  homage  that  the  pre- 
tender pays  to  the  legitimate  prince;  the  recog- 
nition due  to  the  real  thing  from  the  machine- 
made  imitation;  the  homage  of  the  builder  to  the 
architect. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "  we  jobbing  men 
run  up  our  rows  and  rows  of  houses ;  build  whole 
towns  and  fill  the  papers  for  years.  But  when 
we  want  something  special — something  monu- 
mental— we  have  to  come  to  you." 

Fox  came  in  again. 

"  Very  sorry,  my  dear  fellow,  find  I  can't  pos- 
[56] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

sibly  get  a  moment  for  a  chat  with  you.  Look 
here,  come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  Paragraph 
round  the  corner — to-night  at  six  sharp.  You'll 
go  to  Churchill's  to-morrow." 

The  Paragraph  Club,  where  I  was  to  meet  Fox, 
was  one  of  those  sporadic  establishments  that 
spring  up  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Strand. 
It  is  one  of  their  qualities  that  they  are  always 
just  round  the  corner;  another,  that  their  stew- 
ards are  too  familiar;  another,  that  they — in  the 
opinion  of  the  other  members — are  run  too  much 
for  the  convenience  of  one  in  particular. 

In  this  case  it  was  Fox  who  kept  the  dinner 
waiting.  I  sat  in  the  little  smoking-room  and, 
from  behind  a  belated  morning  paper,  listened  to 
the  conversation  of  the  three  or  four  journalists 
who  represented  the  members.  I  felt  as  a  new 
boy  in  a  new  school  feels  on  his  first  introduction 
to  his  fellows. 

There  was  a  fossil  dramatic  critic  sleeping  in 
an  arm-chair  before  the  fire.  At  dinner-time  he 
woke  up,  remarked: 

"  You  should  have  seen  Fanny  EUsler,"  and 
went  to  sleep  again. 

Sprawling  on  a  red  velvet  couch  was  a  beau 
[57] 


THE    INHERITORS 

jcune  homme,  with  the  necktie  of  a  Parisian- 
American  student.  On  a  chair  beside  him  sat  a 
personage  whom,  perhaps  because  of  his  plentiful 
lack  of  h's,  I  took  for  a  distinguished  foreigner. 

They  were  talking  about  a  splendid  subject  for 
a  music-hall  dramatic  sketch  of  some  sort — af- 
forded by  a  bus  driver,  1  fancy. 

I  heard  afterward  that  my  Frenchman  had 
been  a  costermonger  and  was  now  half  journalist, 
half  financier,  and  that  my  art  student  was  an 
employee  of  one  of  the  older  magazines. 

"  Dinner's  on  the  table,  gents,"  the  steward 
said  from  the  door.  He  went  toward  the  sleeper 
by  the  fire.  "  I  expect  Mr.  Cunningham  will 
wear  that  arm-chair  out  before  he's  done,"  he  said 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  Poor  old  chap;  he's  got  nowhere  else  to  go 
to,"  the  magazine  employee  said. 

"  Why  doesn't  he  go  to  the  work'ouse,"  the 
journalist  financier  retorted.  "  Make  a  good 
sketch  that,  eh?  "  he  continued,  reverting  to  his 
bus-driver. 

"  Jolly!  "  the  magazine  employee  said,  indiffer- 
ently. 

"  Now,  then,  Mr,  Cunningham,"  the  steward 
[58] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

said,  touching  the  sleeper  on  the  shoulder,  "  din- 
ner's on  the  table." 

"  God  bless  my  soul,"  the  dramatic  critic  said, 
with  a  start.  The  steward  left  the  room.  The 
dramatic  critic  furtively  took  a  set  of  false  teeth 
out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket;  wiped  them  with  a 
bandanna  handkerchief,  and  inserted  them  in  his 
mouth. 

He  tottered  out  of  the  room. 

I  got  up  and  began  to  inspect  the  pen-and-ink 
sketches  on  the  walls. 

The  faded  paltry  caricatures  of  faded  paltry 
lesser  lights  that  confronted  me  from  fly-blown 
frames  on  the  purple  walls  almost  made  me 
shiver. 

"  There  you  are,  Granger,"  said  a  cheerful  voice 
behind  me.    "  Come  and  have  some  dinner." 

I  went  and  had  some  dinner.  It  was  seasoned 
by  small  jokes  and  little  personaHties.  A  Teu- 
tonic journalist,  a  musical  critic,  I  suppose,  in- 
quired as  to  the  origin  of  the  meagre  pheasant. 
Fox  replied  that  it  had  been  preserved  in  the 
back-yard.  The  dramatic  critic  mumbled  un- 
heard that  some  piece  or  other  was  ofi  the  bills 
of  the  Adelphi.  I  grinned  vacantly.  After- 
[59] 


THE   INHERITORS 

ward,  under  his  breath,  Fox  put  me  up  to  a 
thing  or  two  regarding  the  inner  meaning  of  the 
new  daily.  Put  by  him,  without  any  glamour  of 
a  moral  purpose,  the  case  seemed  rather  mean. 
The  dingy  smoking-room  depressed  me  and  the 
whole  thing  was,  what  I  had,  for  so  many  years, 
striven  to  keep  out  of.  Fox  hung  over  my  ear, 
whispering.  There  were  shades  of  intonation  in 
his  sibillating.  Some  of  those  "  in  it,"  the  voice 
implied,  were  not  above-board;  others  were,  and 
the  tDne  became  deferential,  implied  that  I  was  to 
take  my  tone  from  itself. 

"  Of  course,  a  man  like  the  Right  Honourable 
C.  does  it  on  the  straight,  .  .  .  quite  on  the 
straight,  .  .  .  has  to  have  some  sort  of  semi- 
official backer.  ...  In  this  case,  it's  me, 
.  .  .  the  Hour.  They're  a  bit  splitty,  the 
Ministry,  I  mean.  .  .  .  They  say  Gurnard  isn't 
playing  square  .  .  .  they  say  so."  His 
broad,  red  face  glowed  as  he  bent  down  to  my  ear, 
his  little  sea-blue  eyes  twinkled  with  moisture. 
He  enhghtened  me  cautiously,  circumspectly. 
There  was  something  unpleasant  in  the  business 
— not  exactly  in  Fox  himself,  but  the  kind  of 
thing.  I  wish  he  would  cease  his  explanations — I 
[60] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

didn't  want  to  hear  them.  I  have  never  wanted 
to  know  how  things  are  worked;  preferring  to 
take  the  world  at  its  face  value.  Callan's  revela- 
tions had  been  bearable,  because  of  the  farcical 
pompousness  of  his  manner.  But  this  was  differ- 
ent, it  had  the  stamp  of  truth,  perhaps  because  it 
was  a  little  dirty.  I  didn't  want  to  hear  that  the 
Foreign  Minister  was  ever  so  remotely  mixed  up 
in  this  business.  He  was  only  a  symbol  to  me, 
but  he  stood  for  the  stability  of  statesmanship  and 
for  the  decencies  that  it  is  troublesome  to  Jiave 
touched. 

"  Of  course,"  he  was  proceeding,  "  the  Church- 
ill gang  would  like  to  go  on  playing  the 
stand-off  to  us.  But  it  won't  do,  they've  got  to 
come  in  or  see  themselves  left.  Gurnard  has 
pretty  well  nobbled  their  old  party  press,  so 
they've  got  to  begin  all  over  again." 

That  was  it — that  was  precisely  it.  Churchill 
ought  to  have  played  the  stand-ofif  to  people  like 
us — to  have  gone  on  playing  it  at  whatever  cost. 
That  was  what  I  demanded  of  the  world  as  I  con- 
ceived it.  It  was  so  much  less  troublesome  in 
that  way.  On  the  other  hand,  this  was  life — I 
was  living  now  and  the  cost  of  living  is  disillu- 
[6i] 


THE   INHERITORS 

sionment ;  it  was  the  price  I  had  to  pay.  Obvious- 
ly, a  Foreign  Minister  had  to  have  a  semi-official 
organ,  or  I  supposed  so.  .  .  .  "  ]\Iind  you,"  Fox 
whispered  on,  "  I  think  myself,  that  it's  a  pity 
he  is  supporting  the  Greenland  business.  The 
thing's  not  altogether  straight.  But  it's  going  to 
be  made  to  pay  like  hell,  and  there's  the  national 
interest  to  be  considered.  If  this  Government 
didn't  take  it  up,  some  other  would — and  that 
would  give  Gurnard  and  a  lot  of  others  a  peg 
against  Churchill  and  his.  We  can't  afford  to 
lose  any  more  coaling  stations  in  Greenland  or 
anywhere  else.  And,  mind  you,  Mr.  C.  can  look 
after  the  interests  of  the  niggers  a  good  deal  bet- 
ter if  he's  a  hand  in  the  pie.  You  see  the  position, 
eh?" 

I  wasn't  actually  listening  to  him,  but  I  nodded 
at  proper  intervals.  I  knew  that  he  wanted  me 
to  take  that  line  in  confidential  conversations 
with  fellows  seeking  copy.  I  was  quite  resigned 
to  that.  Incidentally,  I  was  overcome  by  the 
conviction — perhaps  it  was  no  more  than  a  sen- 
sation— that  that  girl  was  mixed  up  in  this  thing, 
that  her  shadow  was  somewhere  among  the 
others  flickering  upon  the  sheet.  I  wanted  to 
[62] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

ask  Fox  if  he  knew  her.  But,  then,  in  that  ab- 
surd business,  I  did  not  even  know  her  name, 
and  the  whole  story  would  have  sounded  a  little 
mad.  Just  now,  it  suited  me  that  Fox  should 
have  a  moderate  idea  of  my  sanity.  Besides,  the 
thing  was  out  of  tone,  I  idealised  her  then.  One 
wouldn't  talk  about  her  in  a  smoking-room  full 
of  men  telling  stories,  and  one  wouldn't  talk 
about  her  at  all  to  Fox. 

The  musical  critic  had  been  prowling  about  the 
room  with  Fox's  eyes  upon  him.  He  edged  sud- 
denly nearer,  pushed  a  chair  aside,  and  came 
toward  us. 

"  Hullo,"  he  said,  in  an  ostentatiously  genial, 
after-dinner  voice,  "  what  are  you  two  chaps 
a-talking  about?  " 

"  Private  matters,"  Fox  answered,  without 
moving  a  hair. 

"  Then  I  suppose  Fm  in  the  way?  "  the  other 
muttered.     Fox  did  not  answer. 

"  Wants  a  job,"  he  said,  watching  the  discom- 
fited Teuton's  retreat,  "  but,  as  I  was  saying — oh, 
it  pays  both  ways."  He  paused  and  fixed  his  eyes 
on  me.  He  had  been  explaining  the  financial 
details  of  the  matter,  in  which  the  Due  de  Mersch 
[63] 


THE   INHERITORS 

and  Callan  and  Mrs.  Hartly  and  all  these  people 
clubbed  together  and  started  a  paper  which  they 
hired  Fox  to  run,  which  was  to  bring  their  money 
back  again,  which  was  to  scratch  their  backs, 
which  ...  It  was  like  the  house  that  Jack 
built;  I  wondered  who  Jack  was.  That  was  it, 
who  was  Jack?    It  all  hinged  upon  that. 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  said.  "  It  seems  rather  neat." 
"  Of  course,"  Fox  wandered  on,  "  you  are  won- 
dering why  the  deuce  I  tell  you  all  this.  Fact 
is,  you'd  hear  it  all  if  I  didn't,  and  a  good  deal 
more  that  isn't  true  besides.  But  I  believe  you're 
the  sort  of  chap  to  respect  a  confidence." 

I  didn't  rise  to  the  sentiment.  I  knew  as  well 
as  he  did  that  he  was  bamboozling  me,  that  he 
was,  as  he  said,  only  telling  me — not  the  truth, 
but  just  what  I  should  hear  ever>'where.  I  did 
not  bear  him  any  ill-will;  it  was  part  of  the  game, 
that.  But  the  question  was,  who  was  Jack?  It 
might  be  Fox  himself  .  .  .  There  might,  after 
all,  be  some  meaning  in  the  farrago  of  nonsense 
that  that  fantastic  girl  had  let  off  upon  me.  Fox 
really  and  in  a  figure  of  speech  such  as  she  al- 
lowed herself,  might  be  running  a  team  consist-^ 
ing  of  the  Due  de  Mersch  and  Mr.  Churchill. 
[64I 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

He  might  really  be  backing  a  foreign,  philan- 
thropic ruler  and  State-founder,  and  a  British 
Foreign  Minister,  against  the  rather  sinister 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  that  Mr.  Gurnard 
undoubtedly  was.  It  might  suit  him;  perhaps  he 
had  shares  in  something  or  other  that  depended 
on  the  success  of  the  Due  de  Mersch's  Greenland 
Protectorate.  I  knew  well  enough,  you  must 
remember,  that  Fox  was  a  big  man — one  of 
those  big  men  that  remain  permanently  behind 
the  curtain,  perhaps  because  they  have  a  certain 
lack  of  comeliness  of  one  sort  or  another  and 
don't  look  well  on  the  stage  itself.  And  I  un- 
derstood now  that  if  he  had  abandoned — as  he 
had  done — half  a  dozen  enterprises  of  his  own 
for  the  sake  of  the  Hour,  it  must  be  because  it 
was  very  well  worth  his  while.  It  was  not  merely 
a  question  of  the  editorship  of  a  paper;  there 
was  something  very  much  bigger  in  the  back- 
ground. My  Dimensionist  young  lady,  again, 
might  have  other  shares  that  depended  on  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer's  blocking  the  way. 
In  that  way  she  might  very  well  talk  allegorically 
of  herself  as  in  alliance  with  Gurnard  against  Fox 
and  Churchill.  I  was  at  sea  in  that  sort  of  thing 
[65] 


THE    INHERITORS 

— but  I  understood  vaguely  that  something  of 
the  sort  was  remotely  possible. 

I  didn't  feel  called  upon  to  back  out  of  it  on 
that  account,  yet  I  very  decidedly  wished  that  the 
thing  could  have  been  otherwise.  For  myself, 
I  came  into  the  matter  with  clean  hands — and  I 
was  going  to  keep  my  hands  clean;  otherwise,  I 
was  at  Fox's  disposal. 

"  I  understand,"  I  said,  the  speech  marking 
my  decision,  "  I  shall  have  dealings  with  a  good 
many  of  the  proprietors — I  am  the  scratcher,  in 
fact,  and  you  don't  want  me  to  make  a  fool  of 
myself." 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  gauging  me  with  his 
blue,  gimlet  eyes,  "  it's  just  as  well  to  know." 

"  It's  just  as  well  to  know,"  I  echoed.  It  was 
just  as  well  to  know. 


[66] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

I  HAD  gone  out  into  the  blackness  of  the 
night  with  a  firmer  step,  with  a  new  assur- 
ance. I  had  had  my  interview,  the  thing 
was  definitely  settled;  the  first  thing  in  my  life 
that  had  ever  been  definitely  settled;  and  I  felt 
I  must  tell  Lea  before  I  slept.  Lea  had  helped 
me  a  good  deal  in  the  old  days — he  had  helped 
ever>-body,  for  that  matter.  You  would  probably 
find  traces  of  Lea's  influence  in  the  beginnings  of 
every  writer  of  about  my  decade;  of  everybody 
who  ever  did  anything  decent,  and  of  some  who 
never  got  beyond  the  stage  of  burgeoning '^de- 
cently. He  had  given  me  the  material  help  that 
a  publisher's  reader  could  give,  until  his  profes- 
sional reputation  was  endangered,  and  he  had 
given  me  the  more  valuable  help  that  so  few  can 
give.  I  had  grown  ashamed  of  this  one-sided 
friendship.  It  was,  indeed,  partly  because  of 
that  that  I  had  taken  to  the  wilds — to  a  hut 
near  a  wood,  and  all  the  rest  of  what  now  seemed 
[67] 


THE   INHERITORS 

youthful  foolishness.  I  had  desired  to  live  alone, 
not  to  be  helped  any  more,  until  I  could  make 
some  return.  As  a  natural  result  I  had  lost  nearly 
all  my  friends  and  found  myself  standing  there  as 
naked  as  on  the  day  I  was  born. 

All  around  me  stretched  an  immense  town — an 
immense  blackness.  People — thousands  of  peo- 
ple hurried  past  me,  had  errands,  had  aims,  had 
others  to  talk  to,  to  trifle  with.  But  I  had  no- 
body. This  immense  city,  this  immense  black- 
ness, had  no  interiors  for  me.  There  were  house 
fronts,  staring  windows,  closed  doors,  but  noth- 
ing within;  no  rooms,  no  hollow  places.  The 
houses  meant  nothing  to  me,  nothing  more  than 
the  solid  earth.  Lea  remained  the  only  one  the 
thought  of  whom  was  not  like  the  reconsidera- 
tion of  an  ancient,  a  musty  pair  of  gloves. 

He  lived  just  anywhere.  Being  a  publisher's 
reader,  he  had  to  report  upon  the  probable  com- 
mercial value  of  the  manuscripts  that  unknown 
authors  sent  to  his  employer,  and  I  suppose  he 
had  a  settled  plan  of  life,  of  the  sort  that  brought 
him  within  the  radius  of  a  given  spot  at  appar- 
ently irregular,  but  probably  ordered,  intervals. 
It  seemed  to  be  no  more  than  a  piece  of  good 
[68] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

luck  that  let  me  find  him  that  night  in  a  little 
room  in  one  of  the  by-ways  of  Bloomsbury.  He 
was  sprawling  angularly  on  a  cane  lounge,  sur- 
rounded by  whole  rubbish  heaps  of  manuscript, 
a  grey  scrawl  in  a  foam  of  soiled  paper.  He 
peered  up  at  me  as  I  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  Hullo!  "  he  said,  "  what's  brought  you  here? 
Have  a  manuscript?  "  He  waved  an  abstracted 
hand  round  him.  "  You'll  find  a  chair  some- 
where." A  claret  bottle  stood  on  the  floor  be- 
side him.  He  took  it  by  the  neck  and  passed  it 
to  me. 

He  bent  his  head  again  and  continued  his  read- 
mg.  I  displaced  three  bulky  folio  sheaves  of 
typewritten  matter  from  a  chair  and  seated  myself 
behind  him.     He  continued  to  read. 

"  I  hadn't  seen  these  rooms  before,"  I  said,  for 
want  of  something  to  say. 

The  room  was  not  so  much  scantily  as  ar- 
bitrarily furnished.  It  contained  a  big  mahogany 
sideboard;  a  common  deal  table,  an  extraordinary 
kind  of  folding  wash-hand-stand;  a  deal  book- 
shelf, the  cane  lounge,  and  three  unrelated  chairs. 
There  were  three  framed  Dutch  prints  on  the 
marble  mantel-shelf;  striped  curtains  before  the 
[69] 


THE    INHERITORS 

windows.  A  square,  cheap  looking-glass,  with 
a  razor  above  it,  hung  between  them.  And  on 
the  floor,  on  the  chairs,  on  the  sideboard,  on  the 
unmade  bed,  the  profusion  of  manuscripts. 

He  scribbled  something  on  a  blue  paper  and 
began  to  roll  a  cigarette.  He  took  off  his  glasses,, 
rubbed  them,  and  closed  his  eyes  tightly. 

"  Well,  and  how's  Sussex?  "  he  asked. 

I  felt  a  sudden  attack  of  what,  essentially,  was 
nostalgia.  The  fact  that  I  was  really  leaving  an 
old  course  of  life,  was  actually  and  finally  break- 
ing with  it,  became  vividly  apparent.  Lea,  you 
see,  stood  for  what  was  best  in  the  mode  of 
thought  that  I  was  casting  aside.  He  stood  for 
the  aspiration.  The  brooding,  the  moodiness; 
all  the  childish  qualities,  were  my  own  importa- 
tions. I  was  a  little  ashamed  to  tell  him,  that — 
that  I  was  going  to  live,  in  fact.  Some  of  the 
glory  of  it  had  gone,  as  if  one  of  two  candles  I 
had  been  reading  by  had  flickered  out.  But  I 
told  him,  after  a  fashion,  that  I  had  got  a  job 
at  last. 

"  Oh,  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said. 

"  You  see,"  I  began  to  combat  the  objections 
he  had  not  had  time  to  utter,  "  even  for  my 
[70] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

work  it  will  be  a  good  thing — I  wasn't  seeing 
enough  of  life  to  be  able  to     .     .     .  " 

"  Oh,  of  course  not,"  he  answered — "  it'll  be  a 
good  thing.  You  must  have  been  having  a  pretty 
bad  time." 

It  struck  me  as  abominably  unfair.  I  hadn't 
taken  up  with  the  Hour  because  I  was  tired  of 
having  a  bad  time,  but  for  other  reasons:  be- 
cause I  had  felt  my  soul  being  crushed  within 
me. 

"  You're  mistaken,"  I  said.  And  I  explained. 
He  answered.  "  Yes,  yes,"  but  I  fancied  that 
he  was  adding  to  himself — "  They  all  say  that." 
I  grew  more  angry.  Lea's  opinion  formed,  to 
some  extent,  the  background  of  my  life.  For 
many  years  I  had  been  writing  quite  as  much  to 
satisfy  him  as  to  satisfy  myself,  and  his  coldness 
chilled  me.  He  thought  that  my  heart  was  hot 
in  my  work,  and  I  did  not  want  Lea  to  think 
that  of  me.  I  tried  to  explain  as  much  to  him — 
but  it  was  difficult,  and  he  gave  me  no  help. 

I  knew  there  had  been  others  that  he  had 
fostered,  only  to  see  them,  in  the  end,  drift  into 
the  back-wash.  And  now  he  thought  I  was  go- 
ing too     .     .     . 

[71] 


THE    INHERITORS 

"  Here,"  he  said,  suddenly  breaking  away  from 
the  subject,  "  look  at  that." 

He  threw  a  heavy,  ribbon-bound  mass  of  mat- 
ter into  my  lap,  and  recommenced  writing  his 
report  upon  its  saleability  as  a  book.  He  was  of 
opinion  that  it  was  too  delicately  good  to  attract 
his  employer's  class  of  readers.  I  began  to  read 
it  to  get  rid  of  my  thoughts.  The  heavy  black 
handwriting  of  the  manuscript  sticks  in  my 
mind's  eye.  It  must  have  been  good,  but  prob- 
ably not  so  good  as  I  then  thought  it — I  have 
entirely  forgotten  all  about  it;  otherwise,  I  re- 
member that  we  argued  afterward:  I  for  its  pub- 
lication; he  against.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
wretched  author  whose  fate  hung  in  the  balance. 
He  became  a  pathetic  possibility,  hidden  in  the 
heart  of  the  white  paper  that  bore  pen-markings 
of  a  kind  too  good  to  be  marketable.  There  was 
something  appalling  in  Lea's  careless — "  Oh,  it's 
too  good!  "  He  was  used  to  it,  but  as  for  me,  in 
arguing  that  man's  case  I  suddenly  became  aware 
that  I  was  pleading  my  own — pleading  the  case 
of  my  better  work.  Everything  that  Lea  said 
of  this  work,  of  this  man,  applied  to  my  work;  and 
to  myself.  "  There's  no  market  for  that  sort  of 
[72] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

thing,  no  public;  this  book's  been  all  round  the 
trade.  I've  had  it  before.  The  man  will  never 
come  to  the  front.  He'll  take  to  inn-keeping, 
and  that  will  finish  him  ofif."  That's  what  he 
said,  and  he  seemed  to  be  speaking  of  me.  Some 
one  was  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  room — ten- 
tative knocks  of  rather  flabby  knuckles.  It  was 
one  of  those  sounds  that  one  does  not  notice  im- 
mediately. The  man  might  have  been  knocking 
for  ten  minutes.  It  happened  to  be  Lea's  em- 
ployer, the  publisher  of  my  first  book.  He 
opened  the  door  at  last,  and  came  in  rather  per- 
emptorily. He  had  the  air  of  having  worked 
himself  into  a  temper — of  being  intellectually 
rather  afraid  of  Lea,  but  of  being,  for  this  occa- 
sion, determined  to  assert  himself. 

The  introduction  to  myself — I  had  never  met 
him  —  which  took  place  after  he  had  hastily 
brought  out  half  a  sentence  or  so,  had  the  effect 
of  putting  him  out  of  his  stride,  but,  after  hav- 
ing remotely  acknowledged  the  possibility  of  my 
existence,  he  began  again. 

The  matter  was  one  of  some  delicacy.  I 
myself  should  have  hesitated  to  broach  it  before 
a  third  partv,  even  one  so  negligible  as  myself, 
[  73  ] 


THE   INHERITORS 

But  Mr.  Polehampton  apparently  did  not.  He 
had  to  catch  the  last  post. 

Lea,  it  appeared,  had  advised  him  to  publish 
a  manuscript  by  a  man  called  Howden — a  mod- 
erately known  writer.     .     .     . 

"  But  I  am  disturbed  to  find,  Mr.  Lea,  that  is, 
my  daughter  tells  me  that  the  manuscript  is 
not  ...  is  not  at  all  the  thing.  ...  In 
fact,  it's  quite — and — eh  ...  I  suppose  it's 
too  late  to  draw  back?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  altogether  too  late  for  that,''  Lea  said, 
nonchalantly.  "  Besides,  Howden's  theories  al- 
ways sell." 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  of  course,"  Mr.  Polehamp- 
ton interjected,  hastily,  "  but  don't  you  think 
now  ...  I  mean,  taking  into  consideration 
the  damage  it  may  do  our  reputation  .  .  . 
that  we  ought  to  ask  Mr.  Howden  to  accept,  say 
fifty  pounds  less  than.     .     .     ." 

"  I  should  think  it's  an  excellent  idea,"  Lea 
said.  Mr.  Polehampton  glanced  at  him  sus- 
piciously, then  turned  to  me. 

"  You  see,"  he  began  to  explain,  "  one  has  to 
be  so  careful  about  these  things." 

"  Oh,  I  can  quite  understand,"  I  answered. 
There  was  something  so  naive  in  the  man's  point 
[74] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

of  view  that  I  had  felt  my  heart  go  out  to  him. 
And  he  had  taught  me  at  last  how  it  is  that  the 
godly  grow  fat  at  the  expense  of  the  unrighteous. 
Mr.  Polehampton,  however,  was  not  fat.  He 
was  even  rather  thin,  and  his  peaked  grey  hair, 
though  it  was  actually  well  brushed,  looked  as 
if  it  ought  not  to  have  been.  He  had  even  an 
anxious  expression.  People  said  he  speculated  in 
some  stock  or  other,  and  I  should  say  they  were 
right. 

"  I  .  .  .  eh  .  .  .  believe  I  published 
your  first  book  ...  I  lost  money  by  it,  but 
I  can  assure  you  that  I  bear  no  grudge — almost 
a  hundred  pounds.     I  bear  no  grudge     ..." 

The  man  was  an  original.  He  had  no  idea  that 
I  might  feel  insulted;  indeed,  he  really  wanted 
to  be  pleasant,  and  condescending,  and  forgiving. 
I  didn't  feel  insulted.  He  was  too  big  for  his 
clothes,  gave  that  impression  at  least,  and  he  wore 
black  kid  gloves.  Moreover,  his  eyes  never  left 
the  cornice  of  the  room.  I  saw  him  rather  often 
after  that  night,  but  never  without  his  gloves 
and  never  with  his  eyes  lowered. 

"  And  ...  eh  ..."  he  asked,  "  what 
are  you  doing  now,  Mr.  Granger?  " 

Lea  told  him  Fox  had  taken  me  up;  that  I 
[75] 


THE   INHERITORS 

was  going  to  go.  I  suddenly  remembered  it  was 
said  of  Fox  that  everyone  he  took  up  did  "  go." 
The  fact  was  obviously  patent  to  Mr.  Polehamp- 
ton.  He  unbent  with  remarkable  suddenness;  it 
reminded  me  of  the  abrupt  closing  of  a  stiff  um- 
brella. He  became  distinctly  and  crudely  cordial 
— hoped  that  we  should  work  together  again; 
once  more  reminded  me  that  he  had  published 
my  first  book  (the  words  had  a  different  savour 
now),  and  was  enchanted  to  discover  that  we 
were  neighbours  in  Sussex.  My  cottage  was 
within  four  miles  of  his  villa,  and  we  were  mem- 
bers of  the  same  golf  club. 

"  We  must  have  a  game — several  games,"  he 
said.  He  struck  me  as  the  sort  of  man  to  find 
a  dif^culty  in  getting  anyone  to  play  with  him. 

After  that  he  went  away.  As  I  had  said,  I  did 
not  dislike  him — he  was  pathetic;  but  his  tone 
of  mind,  his  sudden  change  of  front,  un-nerved  me. 
It  proved  so  absolutely  that  I  was  "  going  to  go," 
and  I  did  not  want  to  go — in  that  sense.  The 
thing  is  a  little  difficult  to  explain,  I  wanted  to 
take  the  job  because  I  wanted  to  have  money — 
for  a  little  time,  for  a  year  or  so,  but  if  I  once 
began  to  go,  the  temptation  would  be  strong  to 
[76] 


CHAPTER  FIVE 
keep  on  going,  and  I  was  by  no  means  sure  that 
I  should  be  able  to  resist  the  temptation.  So 
many  others  had  failed.  What  if  I  wrote  to  Fox, 
and  resigned?  .  .  .  Lea  was  deep  in  a  manu- 
script once  more. 

"  Shall  I  throw  it  up?  "  I  asked  suddenly.  I 
wanted  the  thing  settled. 

''  Oh,  go  on  with  it,  by  all  means  go  on  with  it," 
Lea  answered. 

"  And     .     .     .     ? "  I  postulated. 

"  Take  your  chance  of  the  rest,"  he  supplied; 
"  you've  had  a  pretty  bad  time." 

"  I  suppose,"  I  reflected,  "  if  I  haven't  got  the 
strength  of  mind  to  get  out  of  it  in  time,  I'm  not 
up  to  much." 

"  There's  that,  too,"  he  commented,  "  the 
game  may  not  be  worth  the  candle."  I  was 
silent.  "  You  must  take  your  chance  when  you 
get  it,"  he  added. 

He  had  resumed  his  reading,  but  he  looked  up 
again  when  I  gave  way,  as  I  did  after  a  moment's 
thought. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  it  will  probably  be  all 
right.     You  do  your  best.     It's  a  good  thing 
.    .     .    might  even  do  you  good." 
[77] 


THE    INHERITORS 

In  that  way  the  thing  went  through.  As  I  was 
leaving  the  room,  the  idea  occurred  to  me,  *'  By 
the  way,  you  don't  know  anything  of  a  chque: 
the  Dimensionists — Fourth  Dimensionists?  " 

"  Never    heard    of    them,"    he    negatived. 
"  What's  their  specialty?  " 

"  They're  going  to  inherit  the  earth,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  them  joy,"  he  closed. 

"  You  don't  happen  to  be  one  yourself?  I  be- 
lieve it's  a  sort  of  secret  society."  He  wasn't 
listening.     I  went  out  quietly. 

The  night  effects  of  that  particular  neighbour- 
hood have  always  affected  me  dismally.  That 
night  they  upset  me,  upset  me  in  much  the  same 
way,  acting  on  much  the  same  nerves  as  the  valley 
in  which  I  had  walked  with  that  puzzling  girl. 
I  remembered  that  she  had  said  she  stood  for  the 
future,  that  she  was  a  symbol  of  my  own  decay 
— the  whole  silly  farrago,  in  fact.  I  reasoned 
with  myself — that  I  was  tired,  out  of  trim,  and 
so  on,  that  I  was  in  a  fit  state  to  be  at  the  mercy 
of  any  nightmare.  I  plunged  into  Southampton 
Row.  There  was  safety  in  the  contact  with  the 
crowd,  in  jostling,  in  being  jostled. 
[78] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

IT  was  Saturday  and,  as  was  his  custom  during 
the  session,  the  Foreign  Secretary  had  gone 
for  privacy  and  rest  till  Monday  to  a  small 
country  house  he  had  within  easy  reach  of  town. 
I  went  down  with  a  letter  from  Fox  in  my  pocket, 
and  early  in  the  afternoon  found  myself  talking 
without  any  kind  of  inward  disturbance  to  the 
Minister's  aunt,  a  lean,  elderly  lady,  with  a  keen 
eye,  and  credited  with  a  profound  knowledge  of 
European  politics.  She  had  a  rather  abrupt  man- 
ner and  a  business-like,  brown  scheme  of  colora- 
tion. She  looked  people  very  straight  in  the  face, 
bringing  to  bear  all  the  penetration  which,  as 
rumour  said,  enabled  her  to  take  a  hidden,  but 
very  real  part  in  the  shaping  of  our  foreign  policy. 
She  seemed  to  catalogue  me,  label  me,  and  lay 
me  on  the  shelf,  before  I  had  given  my  first  an- 
swer to  her  first  question. 

"  You  ought  to  know  this  part  of  the  country 
well,"  she  said.     I  think  she  was  considering  me 
[79] 


THE   INHERITORS 

as  a  possible  canvasser — an  infinitesimal  thing, 
but  of  a  kind  possibly  worth  remembrance  at  the 
next  General  Election. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I've  never  been  here  before." 
"  Etchingham  is  only  three  miles  away." 
It  was  new  to  me  to  be  looked  upon  as  worth 
consideration  for  my  place-name.  I  realised  that 
Miss  Churchill  accorded  me  toleration  on  its  ac- 
count, that  I  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  Grangers 
of  Etchingham,  who  had  taken  to  literature. 

"  I  met  your  aunt  yesterday,"  Miss  Churchill 
continued.     She  had  met  everybody  yesterday. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  non-committally.  I  wondered 
what  had  happened  at  that  meeting.  My  aunt 
and  I  had  never  been  upon  terms.  She  was  a 
great  personage  in  her  part  of  the  world,  a  great 
dowager  land-owner,  as  poor  as  a  mouse,  and  as 
respectable  as  a  hen.  She  was,  moreover,  a  keen 
politician  on  the  side  of  Miss  Churchill.  I,  who 
am  neither  landowner,  nor  respectable,  nor  poli- 
tician, had  never  been  acknowledged — but  I  knew 
that,  for  the  sake  of  the  race,  she  would  have 
refrained  from  enlarging  on  my  shortcomings. 

"  Has  she  found  a  companion  to  suit  her  yet  ?  " 
I  said,  absent-mindedly.     I  was  thinking  of  an  old 
[80] 


CHAPTER  SIX 
legend  of  my  mother's.  Miss  Churchill  looked 
me  in  between  the  eyes  again.  She  was  prepar- 
ing to  relabel  me,  I  think.  I  had  become  a  spite- 
ful humourist.  Possibly  I  might  be  useful  for 
platform  malice. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said,  the  faintest  of  twinkles 
in  her  eyes,  "  she  has  adopted  a  niece." 

The  legend  went  that,  at  a  hotly  contested  elec- 
tion in  which  my  aunt  had  played  a  prominent 
part,  a  rainbow  poster  had  beset  the  walls. 
"  Who  starved  her  governess?  "  it  had  inquired. 

My  accidental  reference  to  such  electioneering 
details  placed  me  upon  an  excellent  footing  with 
Miss  Churchill.  I  seemed  quite  unawares  to 
have  asserted  myself  a  social  equal,  a  person  not 
to  be  treated  as  a  casual  journalist.  I  became, 
in  fact,  not  the  representative  of  the  Hour — 
but  an  Etchingham  Granger  that  competitive 
forces  had  compelled  to  accept  a  journalistic  plum. 
I  began  to  see  the  line  I  was  to  take  throughout 
my  interviewing  campaign.  On  the  one  hand, 
I  was  '*  one  of  us,"  who  had  temporarily  strayed 
beyond  the  pale;  on  the  other,  I  was  to  be  a 
sort  of  great  author's  bottle-holder. 

A  side  door,  behind  Miss  Churchill,  opened 
[8i] 


THE    INHERITORS 

gently.  There  was  something  very  characteris- 
tic in  the  tentative  manner  of  its  coming  ajar. 
It  seemed  to  say:  "Why  any  noisy  vigour?" 
It  seemed  to  be  propelled  by  a  contemplative 
person  with  many  things  on  his  mind.  A  tall, 
grey  man  in  the  doorway  leaned  the  greater  part 
of  his  weight  on  the  arm  that  was  stretched  down 
to  the  handle.  He  was  looking  thoughtfully 
at  a  letter  that  he  held  in  his  other  hand.  A 
face  familiar  enough  in  caricatures  suddenly  grew 
real  to  me — more  real  than  the  face  of  one's  near- 
est friends,  yet  older  than  one  had  any  wish 
to  expect.  It  was  as  if  I  had  gazed  more  intently 
than  usual  at  the  face  of  a  man  I  saw  daily,  and 
had  found  him  older  and  greyer  than  he  had 
ever  seemed  before — as  if  I  had  begun  to  realise 
that  the  world  had  moved  on. 

He  said,  languidly  —  almost  protestingly, 
"  What  am  I  to  do  about  the  Due  de  Mersch?  " 

Miss  Churchill  turned  swiftly,  almost  appre- 
hensively, toward  him.  She  uttered  my  name 
and  he  gave  the  slightest  of  starts  of  annoyance 
— a  start  that  meant,  "  Why  wasn't  I  warned  be- 
fore? "  This  irritated  me;  I  knew  well  enough 
what  were  his  relations  with  de  Mersch,  and  the 
[82] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

man  took  me  for  a  little  eavesdropper,  I  suppose. 
His  attitudes  were  rather  grotesque,  of  the  sort 
that  would  pass  in  a  person  of  his  eminence.  He 
stuck  his  eye-glasses  on  the  end  of  his  nose, 
looked  at  me  short-sightedly,  took  them  ofif  and 
looked  again.  He  had  the  air  of  looking  down 
from  an  immense  height — of  needing  a  telescope. 

"  Oh,  ah  .  .  .  Mrs.  Granger's  son,  I  pre- 
sume. ...  I  wasn't  aware  ..."  The 
hesitation  of  his  manner  made  me  feel  as  if  we 
never  should  get  anywhere — not  for  years  and 
years. 

"  No,"  I  said,  rather  brusquely,  "  I'm  only 
from  the  Hour." 

He  thought  me  one  of  Fox's  messengers  then, 
said  that  Fox  might  have  written:  "  Have  saved 
you  the  trouble,  I  mean     .     .     .     or     .     .     ." 

He  had  the  air  of  wishing  to  be  amiable,  of 
wishing,  even,  to  please  me  by  proving  that  he 
was  aware  of  my  identity. 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  a  Httle  loftily,  "  I  haven't  any 
message,  I've  only  come  to  interview  you."  An 
expression  of  dismay  sharpened  the  lines  of  his 
face. 

"To  .  .  .  "  he  began,  "  but  I've  never  al- 
[83] 


THE   INHERITORS 

lowed —  "  He  recovered  himself  sharply,  and 
set  the  glasses  vigorously  on  his  nose;  at  last  he 
had  found  the  right  track.  "  Oh,  I  remember 
now,"  he  said,  "  I  hadn't  looked  at  it  in  that 
way." 

The  whole  thing  grated  on  my  self-love  and 
I  became,  in  a  contained  way,  furiously  angry. 
I  was  impressed  with  the  idea  that  the  man  was 
only  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  Fox  and  de  Mersch, 
and  that  lot.  And  he  gave  himself  these  airs 
of  enormous  distance.  I,  at  any  rate,  was  clean- 
handed in  the  matter;  I  hadn't  any  axe  to  grind. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  hastily,  "  you  are  to  draw 
my  portrait — as  Fox  put  it.  He  sent  me  your 
Jenkins  sketch.  I  read  it — it  struck  a  very  nice 
note.  And  so — ."  He  sat  himself  down  on  a 
preposterously  low  chair,  his  knees  on  a  level  with 
his  chin.  I  muttered  that  I  feared  he  would  find 
the  process  a  bore. 

"  Not  more  for  me  than  for  you,"  he  answered, 
seriously — "  one  has  to  do  these  things." 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  echoed,  "  one  has  to  do  these 
things."  It  struck  me  that  he  regretted  it — re- 
gretted it  intensely;  that  he  attached  a  bitter 
meaning  to  the  words. 

[84] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

"  And  .  .  .  what  is  the  procedure? "  he 
asked,  after  a  pause.  "  I  am  new  to  the  sort  of 
thing."  He  had  the  air,  I  thought,  of  talking 
to  some  respectable  tradesman  that  one  calls  in 
only  when  one  is  in  CA'tremis — to  a  distinguished 
pawnbroker,  a  man  quite  at  the  top  of  a  tree 
of  inferior  timber. 

"  Oh,  for  the  matter  of  that,  so  am  I,"  I  an- 
swered. "  I'm  supposed  to  get  your  atmosphere, 
as  Callan  put  it." 

"  Indeed,"  he  answered,  absently,  and  then, 
after  a  pause,  "  You  know  Callan?  "  I  was  afraid 
I  should  fall  in  his  estimation. 

"  One  has  to  do  these  things,"  I  said;  "  I've 
just  been  getting  his  atmosphere." 

He  looked  again  at  the  letter  in  his  hand, 
smoothed  his  necktie  and  was  silent.  I  realised 
that  I  was  in  the  way,  but  I  was  still  so  disturbed 
that  I  forgot  how  to  phrase  an  excuse  for  a  mo- 
mentary absence. 

"  Perhaps,     .     .     .  "  I  began. 

He  looked  at  me  attentively. 

"  I  mean,  I  think  I'm  in  the  way,"  I  blurted 
out. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  ^'s  quite  a  small 
[85] 


THE   INHERITORS 

matter.  But,  if  you  are  to  get  my  atmosphere, 
we  may  as  well  begin  out  of  doors."  He  hesi- 
tated, pleased  with  his  witticism;  "  Unless  you're 
tired,"  he  added. 

"  I  will  go  and  get  ready,"  I  said,  as  if  I  were 
a  lady  with  bonnet-strings  to  tie.  I  was  con- 
ducted to  my  room,  where  I  kicked  my  heels 
for  a  decent  interval.  When  I  descended,  Mr. 
Churchill  was  lounging  about  the  room  with  his 
hands  in  his  trouser-pockets  and  his  head  hanging 
hmply  over  his  chest.  He  said,  "Ah!"  on 
seeing  me,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  my  existence. 
He  paused  for  a  long  moment,  looked  medita- 
tively at  himself  in  the  glass  over  the  fire- 
place, and  then  grew  brisk.  "  Come  along,"  he 
said. 

We  took  a  longish  walk  through  a  lush  home- 
country  meadow  land.  We  talked  about  a  num- 
ber of  things,  he  opening  the  ball  with  that  in- 
fernal Jenkins  sketch.  I  was  in  the  stage  at 
which  one  is  sick  of  the  thing,  tired  of  the  bare 
idea  of  it — and  Mr.  Churchill's  laboriously  kind 
phrases  made  the  matter  no  better. 

"  You  know  who  Jenkins  stands  for?  "  I  asked. 
I  wanted  to  get  away  on  the  side  issues. 
[86] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

"  Oh,  I  guessed  it  was "  he  answered. 

They  said  that  Mr.  Churchill  was  an  enthusiast 
for  the  school  of  painting  of  which  Jenkins  was 
the  last  exponent.  He  began  to  ask  questions 
about  him.  Did  he  still  paint?  Was  he  even 
alive? 

*'  I  once  saw  several  of  his  pictures,"  he  re- 
flected. "  His  work  certainly  appealed  to  me 
.  .  .  yes,  it  appealed  to  me.  I  meant  at  the 
time  .  .  .  but  one  forgets;  there  are  so 
many  things."  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  man 
wished  by  these  detached  sentences  to  convey 
that  he  had  the  weight  of  a  kingdom — of  several 
kingdoms — on  his  mind;  that  he  could  spare  no 
more  than  a  fragment  of  his  thoughts  for  every- 
day use. 

"  You  must  take  me  to  see  him,"  he  said,  sud- 
denly. "  I  ought  to  have  something."  I  thought 
of  poor  white-haired  Jenkins,  and  of  his  long 
struggle  with  adversity.  It  seemed  a  little  cruel 
that  Churchill  should  talk  in  that  way  without 
meaning  a  word  of  it — as  if  the  words  were  a 
polite  formality. 

"  Nothing  would   delight   me  more,"   I   an- 
swered, and  added,  "  nothing  in  the  world." 
[87] 


THE    INHERITORS 

He  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  such  and  such  a  pict- 
ure, talked  of  artists,  and  praised  this  and  that 
man  very  fittingly,  but  with  a  certain  timidity — 
a  timidity  that  lured  me  back  to  my  normally 
overbearing  frame  of  mind.  In  such  matters  I 
was  used  to  hearing  my  own  voice.  I  could  talk 
a  man  down,  and,  with  a  feeling  of  the  unfitness 
of  things,  I  talked  Churchill  down.  The  position, 
even  then,  struck  me  as  gently  humorous.  It 
was  as  if  some  infinitely  small  animal  were  bully- 
ing some  colossus  among  the  beasts.  I  was  of 
no  account  in  the  world,  he  had  his  say  among 
the  Olympians.  And  I  talked  recklessly,  like  any 
little  school-master,  and  he  swallowed  it. 

We  reached  the  broad  market-place  of  a  little, 
red  and  grey,  home  county  town;  a  place  of  but 
one  street  dominated  by  a  great  inn-signboard 
a-top  of  an  enormous  white  post.  The  efifigy  of 
So-and-So  of  gracious  memory  swung  lazily, 
creaking,  overhead. 

**  This  is  Etchingham,"  Churchill  said. 

It  was  a  pleasant  commentary  on  the  course  of 

time,  this  entry  into  the  home  of  my  ancestors. 

I  had  been  without  the  pale  for  so  long,  that  I 

had  never  seen  the  haunt  of  ancient  peace.     They 

[88] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

had  done  very  little,  the  Grangers  of  Etching- 
ham — never  anything  but  live  at  Etchingham  and 
quarrel  at  Etchingham  and  die  at  Etchingham 
and  be  the  monstrous  important  Grangers  of 
Etchingham.  My  father  had  had  the  undesirable 
touch,  not  of  the  genius,  but  of  the  Bohemian. 
The  Grangers  of  Etchingham  had  cut  him  adrift 
and  he  had  swum  to  sink  in  other  seas.  Now  I 
was  the  last  of  the  Grangers  and,  as  things  went, 
was  quite  the  best  known  of  all  of  them.  They 
had  grown  poor  in  their  generation;  they  bade 
fair  to  sink,  even  as,  it  seemed,  I  bade  fair  to  rise, 
and  I  had  come  back  to  the  old  places  on  the  arm 
of  one  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth.  I  wondered 
what  the  portentous  old  woman  who  ruled  alone 
in  Etchingham  thought  of  these  times — the  por- 
tentous old  woman  who  ruled,  so  they  said,  the 
place  with  a  rod  of  iron;  who  made  herself  un- 
bearable to  her  companions  and  had  to  fall  back 
upon  an  unfortunate  niece.  I  wondered  idly  who 
the  niece  could  be;  certainly  not  a  Granger  of 
Etchingham,  for  I  was  the  only  one  of  the  breed. 
One  of  her  own  nieces,  most  probably.  Churchill 
had  gone  into  the  post-office,  leaving  me  stand- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  sign-post.  It  was  a  pleas- 
[89] 


THE    INHERITORS 

ant  summer  day,  the  air  very  clear,  the  place  very 
slumbrous.  I  looked  up  the  street  at  a  pair  of 
great  stone  gate-posts,  august,  in  their  way, 
standing  distinctly  aloof  from  the  common  houses, 
a  little  weather-stained,  staidly  lichened.  At  the 
top  of  each  column  sat  a  sculptured  wolf — as  far 
as  I  knew,  my  own  crest.  It  struck  me  pleas- 
antly that  this  must  be  the  entrance  of  the  Manor 
house. 

The  tall  iron  gates  swung  inward,  and  I  saw 
a  girl  on  a  bicycle  curve  out,  at  the  top  of  the 
sunny  street.  She  glided,  very  clear,  small,  and 
defined,  against  the  glowing  wall,  leaned  aslant 
for  the  turn,  and  came  shining  down  toward 
me.  My  heart  leapt;  she  brought  the  whole 
thing  into  composition — the  whole  of  that  slum- 
brous, sunny  street.  The  bright  sky  fell  back 
into  place,  the  red  roofs,  the  blue  shadows,  the 
red  and  blue  of  the  sign-board,  the  blue  of  the 
pigeons  walking  round  my  feet,  the  bright  red  of 
a  postman's  cart.  She  was  gliding  toward  me, 
growing  and  growing  into  the  central  figure. 
She  descended  and  stood  close  to  me. 

"You?"  I  said.  "What  blessed  chance 
brought  you  here?  " 

[90] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

"  Oh,  I  am  your  aunt's  companion,"  she  an- 
swered, "  her  niece,  you  know." 

"  Then  you  must  be  a  cousin,"  I  said. 

"  No;  sister,"  she  corrected,  "  I  assure  you  it's 
sister.  Ask  anyone — ask  your  aunt."  I  was 
braced  into  a  state  of  puzzled  buoyancy. 

''  But  really,  you  know,"  I  said.  She  was  smil- 
ing, standing  up  squarely  to  me,  leaning  a  little 
back,  swaying  her  machine  with  the  motion  of 
her  body. 

"  It's  a  little  ridiculous,  isn't  it?  "  she  said. 

"  Very,"  I  answered,  '*  but  even  at  that,  I  don't 
see —    And  I'm  not  phenomenally  dense," 

"  Not  phenomenally,"  she  answered. 

"  Considering  that  I'm  not  a — not  a  Dimen- 
sionist, "  I  bantered.  "  But  you  have  really 
palmed  yourself  off  on  my  aunt?  " 

"  Really,"  she  answered,  "  she  doesn't  know 
any  better.  She  believes  in  me  immensely.  I 
am  such  a  real  Granger,  there  never  was  a  more 
typical  one.  And  we  shake  our  heads  together 
over  you."  My  bewilderment  was  infinite,  but 
it  stopped  short  of  being  unpleasant. 

"Might  I  call  on  my  aunt?"  I  asked.     "It 

wouldn't  interfere " 

[91] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  Oh,  it  wouldn't  interfere,''  she  said,  "  but  we 
leave  for  Paris  to-morrow.  We  are  very  busy. 
We — that  is,  my  aunt;  I  am  too  young  aoji  too, 
too  discreet — have  a  little  salon  where  we  hatch 
plots  against  half  the  regimes  in  Europe.  You 
have  no  idea  how  Legitimate  we  are." 

"  I  don't  understand  in  the  least,"  I  said;  "  not 
in  the  least." 

"  Oh,  you  must  take  me  literally  if  you  want 
to  understand,"  she  answered,  "  and  you  won't 
do  that.  I  tell  you  plainly  that  I  find  my  account 
in  unsettled  states,  and  that  I  am  unsettling 
them.     Everywhere.    You  will  see." 

She  spoke  with  her  monstrous  dispassionate- 
ness, and  I  felt  a  shiver  pass  down  my  spine,  very 
distinctly.  I  was  thinking  what  she  might  do  if 
ever  she  became  in  earnest,  and  if  ever  I  chanced 
to  stand  in  her  way — as  her  husband,  for  example. 

"  I  wish  you  would  talk  sense — for  one  blessed 
minute,"  I  said;  "  I  want  to  get  things  a  little 
settled  in  my  mind." 

"  Oh,  I'll  talk  sense,"  she  said,  "  by  the  hour, 

but  you  won't  listen.    Take  your  friend,  Churchill, 

now.     He's  the  man  that  we're  going  to  bring 

down.     I  mentioned  it  to  you,  and  so     .     .     .  " 

[92] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

**  But  this  is  sheer  madness,"  I  answered. 

"  Oh,  no,  it's  a  bald  statement  of  fact,"  she  went 
on. 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  I  said,  involuntarily, 

"  Your  article  in  the  Hour  will  help.  Every 
trifle  will  help,"  she  said.  "  Things  that  you 
understand  and  others  that  you  cannot.  .  .  . 
He  is  identifying  himself  with  the  Due  de  Mersch. 
That  looks  nothing,  but  it's  fatal.  There  will  be 
friendships     .     .     .     and  desertions." 

"  Ah!  "  I  said.  I  had  had  an  inkling  of  this, 
and  it  made  me  respect  her  insight  into  home 
politics.  She  must  have  been  alluding  to  Gur- 
nard, whom  everybody — perhaps  from  fear — 
pretended  to  trust.  She  looked  at  me  and 
smiled  again.  It  was  still  the  same  smile;  she 
was  not  radiant  to-day  and  pensive  to-morrow. 
"Do  you  know  I  don't  like  to  hear  that?"  I 
began. 

"  Oh,  there's  irony  in  it,  and  pathos,  and  that 
sort  of  thing,"  she  said,  with  the  remotest  chill 
of  mockery  in  her  intonation.  "  He  goes  into  it 
clean-handed  enough  and  he  only  half  likes  it. 
But  he  sees  that  it's  his  last  chance.  It's  not  that 
he's  worn  out — but  he  feels  that  his  time  has 
[93] 


THE    INHERITORS 

come — unless  he  does  something.  And  so  he's 
going  to  do  something.    You  understand?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  I  said,  light-heartedly. 

"  Oh,  it's  the  System  for  the  Regeneration  of 
the  Arctic  Regions — the  Greenland  affair  of  my 
friend  de  Mersch.  Churchill  is  going  to  make  a 
grand  coup  with  that — to  keep  himself  from  slip- 
ping down  hill,  and,  of  course,  it  would  add  im- 
mensely to  your  national  prestige.  And  he  only 
half  sees  what  de  IMersch  is  or  isn't." 

"  This  is  all  Greek  to  me,"  I  muttered  rebel- 
liously. 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  But  one 
has  to  do  these  things,  and  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand. So  Churchill  doesn't  like  the  whole 
business.  But  he's  under  the  shadow.  He's  been 
thinking  a  good  deal  lately  that  his  day  is  over — 
I'll  prove  it  to  you  in  a  minute — and  so — oh,  he's 
going  to  make  a  desperate  effort  to  get  in  touch 
with  the  spirit  of  the  times  that  he  doesn't  like 
and  doesn't  understand.  So  he  lets  you  get  his 
atmosphere.     That's  all." 

"  Oh,  that's  all,"  I  said,  ironically. 

*'  Of  course  he'd  have  liked  to  go  on  playing 
the  stand-off  to  chaps  like  you  and  me,"  she 
[94] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

mimicked  the  tone  and  words  of  Fox  him- 
self. 

"  This  is  witchcraft,"  I  said.  "  How  in  the 
world  do  you  know  what  Fox  said  to  me?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  she  said.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  she  was  playing  me  with  all  this  nonsense 
— as  if  she  must  have  known  that  I  had  a  tender- 
ness for  her  and  were  fooling  me  to  the  top  of 
her  bent.    I  tried  to  get  my  hook  in. 

"  Now  look  here,"  I  said,  "  we  must  get  things 
settled.     You     .     .     . " 

She  carried  the  speech  off  from  under  my  nose. 

"  Oh,  you  won't  denounce  me,"  she  said,  "  not 
any  more  than  you  did  before;  there  are  so  many 
reasons.  There  would  be  a  scene,  and  you're 
afraid  of  scenes — and  our  aunt  would  back  me 
up.  She'd  have  to.  My  money  has  been  reviv- 
ing the  glories  of  the  Grangers.  You  can  see, 
they've  been  regilding  the  gate." 

I  looked  almost  involuntarily  at  the  tall  iron 
gates  through  which  she  had  passed  into  my 
view.  It  was  true  enough — some  of  the  scroll 
work  was  radiant  with  new  gold. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  will  give  you  credit  for  not 
wishing  to — to  prey  upon  my  aunt.  But  still 
[95] 


THE   INHERITORS 

.  .  .  "  I  was  trying  to  make  the  thing  out. 
It  struck  me  that  she  was  an  American  of  the 
kind  that  subsidizes  households  like  that  of  Etch- 
ingham  Manor.  Perhaps  my  aunt  had  even 
forced  her  to  take  the  family  name,  to  save  ap- 
pearances. The  old  woman  was  capable  of  any- 
thing, even  of  providing  an  obscure  nephew  with 
a  brilliant  sister.  x\nd  I  should  not  be  thanked  if 
I  interfered.  This  skeleton  of  swift  reasoning 
passed  between  word  and  word  ..."  You 
are  no  sister  of  mine!  "  I  was  continuing  my 
sentence  quite  amiably. 

Her  face  brightened  to  greet  someone  ap- 
proaching behind  me. 

"  Did  you  hear  him?  "  she  said.  "  Did  you  hear 
him,  Mr.  Churchill.  He  casts  off — he  disowns 
me.  Isn't  he  a  stern  brother?  And  the  quarrel 
is  about  nothing."  The  impudence — or  the  pres- 
ence of  mind  of  it — overwhelmed  me. 

Churchill  smiled  pleasantly. 

"  Oh — one  always  quarrels  about  nothing," 
Churchill  answered.  He  spoke  a  few  words  to 
her;  about  my  aunt;  about  the  way  her  machine 
ran — that  sort  of  thing.  He  behaved  toward 
her  as  if  she  were  an  indulged  child,  impertinent 
[96] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

with  licence  and  welcome  enough.  He  himself 
looked  rather  like  the  short-sighted,  but  indul- 
gent and  very  meagre  lion  that  peers  at  the  uni- 
corn across  a  plum-cake. 

"  So  you  are  going  back  to  Paris,"  he  said. 
"  Miss  Churchill  will  be  sorry.  And  you  are 
going  to  continue  to — to  break  up  the  uni- 
verse? " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  "  we  are  going  on 
with  that,  my  aunt  would  never  give  it  up.  She 
couldn't,  you  know." 

"  You'll  get  into  trouble,"  Churchill  said,  as  if 
he  were  talking  to  a  child  intent  on  stealing 
apples.  "  And  when  is  our  turn  coming? 
You're  going  to  restore  the  Stuarts,  aren't  you?  " 
It  was  his  idea  of  badinage,  amiable  without 
consequence. 

'*  Oh,  not  quite  that,"  she  answered,  "  not  qurte 
that."  It  was  curious  to  watch  her  talking  to 
another  man — to  a  man,  not  a  bagman  like  Cal- 
lan.  She  put  aside  the  face  she  always  showed  me 
and  became  at  once  what  Churchill  took  her  for 
— a  spoiled  child.  At  times  she  suggested  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  American,  and  had  that  indefinable 
air  of  ghb  acquaintance  with  the  names,  and  none 
[97] 


THE   INHERITORS 

of  the  spirit  of  tradition.  One  half  expected  her 
to  utter  rhapsodies  about  donjon-keeps. 

"  Oh,  you  know,"  she  said,  with  a  fine  affecta- 
tion of  aloofness,  "  we  shall  have  to  be  rather  hard 
upon  you;  we  shall  crumple  you  up  like — " 
Churchill  had  been  moving  his  stick  absent-mind- 
edly in  the  dust  of  the  road,  he  had  produced  a 
big  "  C  H  U."  She  had  erased  it  with  the  point 
of  her  foot — "  like  that,"  she  concluded. 

He  laid  his  head  back  and  laughed  almost 
heartily. 

"  Dear  me,"  he  said,  "  I  had  no  idea  that  I  was 
so  much  in  the  way  of — of  yourself  and  Mrs. 
Granger," 

"  Oh,  it's  not  only  that,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
smile  and  a  cast  of  the  eye  to  me.  "  But  you've 
got  to  make  way  for  the  future." 

Churchill's  face  changed  suddenly.  He  looked 
rather  old,  and  grey,  and  wintry,  even  a  little  frail. 
I  understood  what  she  was  proving  to  me,  and  I 
rather  disliked  her  for  it.  It  seemed  wantonly 
cruel  to  remind  a  man  of  what  he  was  trying  to 
forget. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  with  the  gentle  sadness  of 
quite  an  old  man,  "  I  dare  say  there  is  more  in 
[98] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

that  than  you  think.  Even  you  will  have  to 
learn." 

"  But  not  for  a  long  time,"  she  interrupted 
audaciously. 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  answered,  "  I  hope  not." 
She  nodded  and  glided  away. 

We  resumed  the  road  in  silence.  Mr.  Churchill 
smiled  at  his  own  thoughts  once  or  twice. 

"  A  most  amusing  .  .  ."  he  said  at  last. 
"  She  does  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  a  great  deal." 

I  think  he  meant  that  she  distracted  his 
thoughts. 

"Does  she  always  talk  like  that?"  I  asked. 
He  had  hardly  spoken  to  me,  and  I  felt  as  if  I 
were  interrupting  a  reverie — but  I  wanted  to 
know. 

"  I  should  say  she  did,"  he  answered;  "  I  should 
say  so.  But  Miss  Churchill  says  that  she  has  a 
real  genius  for  organization.  She  used  to  see  a 
good  deal  of  them,  before  they  went  to  Paris, 
you  know." 

"  What  are  they  doing  there?  "  It  was  as  if 
I  were  extracting  secrets  from  a  sleep-walker. 

"  Oh,  they  have  a  kind  of  a  meeting  place,  for 
all  kinds  of  Legitimist  pretenders — French  and 
[99] 


THE   INHERITORS 

Spanish,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  believe  Mrs. 
Granger  takes  it  very  seriously."  He  looked  at 
me  suddenly.  "  But  you  ought  to  know  more 
about  it  than  I  do,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  we  see  very  little  of  each  other,"  I  an- 
swered, "you  could  hardly  call  us  brother  and 
sister." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  he  answered.  I  don't  know  what 
he  saw.     For  myself,  I  saw  nothing. 


•[100] 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

I  SUCCEEDED  in  giving  Fox  what  his  jour- 
nal wanted ;  I  got  the  atmosphere  of  Church- 
ill and  his  house,  in  a  way  that  satisfied  the 
people  for  whom  it  was  meant.  His  house  was 
a  pleasant  enough  place,  of  the  sort  where  they 
do  you  well,  but  not  nauseously  well.  It  stood 
in  a  tranquil  countryside,  and  stood  there  mod- 
estly. Architecturally  speaking,  it  was  gently 
commonplace;  one  got  used  to  it  and  liked  it. 
And  Churchill  himself,  when  one  had  become  ac- 
customed to  his  manner,  one  liked  very  well — 
very  well  indeed.  He  had  a  dainty,  dilettante 
mind,  delicately  balanced,  with  strong  limita- 
tions, a  fantastic  temperament  for  a  person  in  his 
walk  of  life — but  sane,  mind  you,  persistent.  Af- 
ter a  time,  I  amused  myself  with  a  theory  that 
his  heart  was  not  in  his  work,  that  circumstance 
had  driven  him  into  the  career  of  politics  and 
ironical  fate  set  him  at  its  head.  For  myself,  I 
had  an  intense  contempt  for  the  political  mind, 

[lOl] 


•THE    INHERITORS 

and  it  struck  me  that  he  had  some  of  the  same 
feeling.  He  had  little  personal  quaintnesses. 
too,  a  deference,  a  modesty,  an  open-minded- 
ness. 

I  was  with  him  for  the  greater  part  of  his  week- 
end holiday;  hung,  perforce,  about  him  whenever 
he  had  any  leisure.  I  suppose  he  found  me  tire- 
some— but  one  has  to  do  these  things.  He 
talked,  and  I  talked;  heavens,  how  we  talked! 
He  was  almost  always  deferential,  I  almost  always 
dogmatic;  perhaps  because  the  conversation  kept 
on  my  own  ground.  Politics  we  never  touched. 
I  seemed  to  feel  that  if  I  broached  them,  I  should 
be  checked — politely,  but  very  definitely.  Per- 
haps he  actually  contrived  to  convey  as  much  to 
me;  perhaps  I  evolved  the  idea  that  if  I  were  to 
say: 

"  What  do  you  think  about  the  '  Greenland 
System  '  " — he  would  answer: 

"  I  try  not  to  think  about  it,"  or  whatever 
gently  closuring  phrase  his  mind  conceived.  But 
I  never  did  so;  there  were  so  many  other  topics. 

He  was  then  writing  his  Life  of  Cromu'ell  and 
his  mind  was  very  full  of  his  subject.  Once  he 
opened  his  heart,  after  deHcately  sounding  me  for 

[  102] 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
signs  of  boredom.  It  happened,  by  the  merest 
chance — one  of  those  blind  chances  that  inevit- 
ably lead  in  the  future — that  I,  too,  was  obsessed 
at  that  moment  by  the  Lord  Oliver.  A  great 
many  years  before,  when  I  was  a  yearling  of 
tremendous  plans,  I  had  set  about  one  of  those 
glorious  novels  that  one  plans — a  splendid  thing 
with  Old  Noll  as  the  hero  or  the  heavy  father. 
I  had  haunted  the  bookstalls  in  search  of  local 
colour  and  had  wonderfully  well  invested  my 
half-crowns.'  Thus  a  company  of  seventeenth 
century  tracts,  dog-eared,  coverless,  but  very 
glorious  under  their  dust,  accompany  me  through 
life.  One  parts  last  with  those  relics  of  a  golden 
age,  and  during  my  late  convalescence  I  had  re- 
read many  of  them,  the  arbitrary  half-remem- 
bered phrases  suggesting  all  sorts  of  scenes — 
lamplight  in  squalid  streets,  trays  full  of  weather- 
beaten  books.  So,  even  then,  my  mind  was  full 
of  Mercurius  Rusticus.  Mr.  Churchill  on  Crom- 
well amused  me  immensely  and  even  excited  me. 
It  was  life,  this  attending  at  a  self-revelation  of 
an  impossible  temperament.  It  did  me  good,  as 
he  had  said  of  my  pseudo-sister.  It  was  fantastic 
— as  fantastic  as  herself — and  it  came  out  more 
[103] 


THE   INHERITORS 

in  his  conversation  than  in  the  book  itself.  I  had 
something  to  do  with  that,  of  course.  But  im- 
agine the  treatment  accorded  to  Cromwell  by 
this  delicate,  negative,  obstinately  judicial  person- 
ality. It  was  the  sort  of  thing  one  wants  to  get 
into  a  novel.  It  was  a  lesson  to  me — in  tempera- 
ment, in  point  of  view;  I  went  with  his  mood, 
tried  even  to  outdo  him,  in  the  hope  of  spurring 
him  to  outdo  himself.  I  only  mention  it  because 
I  did  it  so  well  that  it  led  to  extraordinary  conse- 
quences. 

We  were  walking  up  and  down  his  lawn,  in  the 
twilight,  after  his  Sunday  supper.  The  pale  light 
shone  along  the  gleaming  laurels  and  dwelt  upon 
the  soft  clouds  of  orchard  blossoms  that  shim- 
mered above  them.  It  dwelt,  too,  upon  the  silver 
streaks  in  his  dark  hair  and  made  his  face  seem 
more  pallid,  and  more  old.  It  affected  me  hke 
some  intense  piece  of  irony.  It  was  like  hearing 
a  dying  man  talk  of  the  year  after  next.  I  had 
the  sense  of  the  unreality  of  things  strong  upon 
me.  Why  should  nightingale  upon  nightingale 
pour  out  volley  upon  volley  of  song  for  the  de- 
light of  a  politician  whose  heart  was  not  in  his 
task  of  keeping  back  the  waters  of  the  deluge, 
[104] 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

but  who  grew  animated  at  the  idea  of  damning 
one  of  the  titans  who  had  let  loose  the  deluge? 

About  a  week  after — or  it  may  have  been  a 
fortnight — Churchill  wrote  to  me  and  asked  me 
to  take  him  to  see  the  Jenkins  of  my  Jenkins 
story.  It  was  one  of  those  ordeals  that  one  goes 
through  when  one  has  tried  to  advance  one's 
friends.  Jenkins  took  the  matter  amiss,  thought 
it  was  a  display  of  insulting  patronage  on  the 
part  of  officialism.  He  was  reluctant  to  show 
his  best  work,  the  forgotten  masterpieces,  the 
things  that  had  never  sold,  that  hung  about  on 
the  faded  walls  and  rotted  in  cellars.  He  would 
not  be  his  genial  self;  he  would  not  talk.  Church- 
ill behaved  very  well — I  think  he  understood. 

Jenkins  thawed  before  his  gentle  appreciations. 
I  could  see  the  change  operating  wathin  him.  He 
began  to  realise  that  this  incredible  visit  from  a 
man  who  ought  to  be  hand  and  glove  with  Acade- 
micians was  something  other  than  a  spy's  en- 
croachment. He  was  old,  you  must  remember, 
and  entirely  unsuccessful.  He  had  fought  a  hard 
fight  and  had  been  worsted.  He  took  his  re- 
venge in  these  suspicions. 

We  younger  men  adored  him.  He  had  the 
[105] 


THE    INHERITORS 

ruddy  face  and  the  archaic  silver  hair  of  the  King 
of  Hearts;  and  a  wonderful  elaborate  politeness 
that  he  had  inherited  from  his  youth — from  the 
days  of  Brummell.  And,  whilst  all  his  belongings 
were  rotting  into  dust,  he  retained  an  extraordi- 
narily youthful  and  ingenuous  habit  of  mind.  It 
was  that,  or  a  little  of  it,  that  gave  the  charm 
to  my  Jenkins  story. 

It  was  a  disagreeable  experience.  I  wished  so 
much  that  the  perennial  hopefulness  of  the  man 
should  at  last  escape  deferring  and  I  was  afraid 
that  Churchill  would  chill  before  Jenkins  had  time 
to  thaw.  But,  as  I  have  said,  I  think  Churchill 
understood.  He  smiled  his  kindly,  short-sighted 
smile  over  canvas  after  canvas,  praised  the  right 
thing  in  each,  remembered  having  seen  this 
and  that  in  such  and  such  a  year,  and  Jenkins 
thawed. 

He  happened  to  leave  the  room — to  fetch  some 
studies,  to  hurry  up  the  tea  or  for  some  such 
reason.  Bereft  of  his  presence  the  place  suddenly 
grew  ghostly.  It  was  as  if  the  sun  had  died  in 
the  sky  and  left  us  in  that  nether  world  where 
dead,  buried  pasts  live  in  a  grey,  shadowless  light. 
Jenkins'  palette  glowed  from  above  a  medley  of 
[106] 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 
stained   rags   on   his   open   colour   table.     The 
rush-bottom  of  his  chair  resembled  a  wind-torn 
thatch. 

''  One  can  draw  morals  from  a  life  like  that," 
I  said  suddenly.  I  was  thinking  rather  of  Jenkins 
than  of  the  man  I  was  talking  to, 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  said,  absently,  "  I  suppose 
there  are  men  who  haven't  the  knack  of  getting 
on." 

"  It's  more  than  a  knack,"  I  said,  with  unneces- 
sary bitterness.     "  It's  a  temperament." 

"  I  think  it's  a  habit,  too.  It  may  be  acquired, 
mayn't  it?  " 

"  No,  no,"  I  fulminated,  '*  it's  precisely  because 
it  can't  be  acquired  that  the  best  men — the  men 
like  ..."  I  stopped  suddenly,  impressed 
by  the  idea  that  the  thing  was  out  of  tone.  I 
had  to  assert  myself  more  than  I  liked  in  talking 
to  Churchill.  Otherwise  I  should  have  disap- 
peared. A  word  from  him  had  the  weight  of 
three  kingdoms  and  several  colonies  behind  it, 
and  I  was  forced  to  get  that  out  of  my  head  by 
making  conversation  a  mere  matter  of  tempera- 
ment. In  that  I  was  the  stronger.  If  I  wanted 
to  say  a  thing,  I  said  it ;  but  he  was  hampered  by 
[  107  ] 


THE    INHERITORS 

a  judicial  mind.  It  seemed,  too,  that  he  Hked  a 
dictatorial  interlocutor,  else  he  would  hardly  have 
brought  himself  into  contact  with  me  again.  Per- 
haps it  was  new  to  him.  My  eye  fell  upon  a  cou- 
ple of  masks,  hanging  one  on  each  side  of  the  fire- 
place. The  room  was  full  of  a  profusion  of  little 
casts,  thick  with  dust  upon  the  shoulders,  the 
hair,  the  eyelids,  on  every  part  that  projected  out- 
ward. 

"  By-the-bye,"  I  said,  "  that's  a  death-mask  of 
Cromwell." 

"  Ah!  "  he  answered,  "  I  knew  there  was  ..." 

He  moved  very  slowly  toward  it,  rather  as  if 
he  did  not  wish  to  bring  it  within  his  field  of  view. 
He  stopped  before  reaching  it  and  pivotted  slowly 
to  face  me. 

"  About  my  book,"  he  opened  suddenly,  "  I 
have  so  little  time."  His  briskness  dropped  into 
a  half  complaint,  like  a  faintly  suggested  avowal 
of  impotence.  "  I  have  been  at  it  four  years 
now.  It  struck  me — you  seemed  to  coincide  so 
singularly  with  my  ideas." 

His  speech  came  wavering  to  a  close,  but  he 
recommenced  it  apologetically — as  if  he  wished 
me  to  help  him  out. 

[  io8  ] 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

"  I  went  to  see  Smithson  the  publisher  about 
it,  and  he  said  he  had  no  objection    .    .    ." 

He  looked  appealing]}'  at  me.  I  kept  si- 
lence. 

"  Of  course,  it's  not  your  sort  of  work.  But 
you  might  try  .  .  .  You  see  .  .  ."  He 
came  to  a  sustained  halt. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  I  said,  rather  coldly, 
when  the  silence  became  embarrassing.  "  You 
want  me  to  '  ghost '  for  you?  " 

"  '  Ghost,'  good  gracious  no,"  he  said,  ener- 
getically;  "  dear  me,  no!  " 

"  Then  I  really  don't  understand,"  I  said. 

"  I  thought  you  might  see  your  ...  I 
wanted  you  to  collaborate  with  me.  Quite  pub- 
licly, of  course,  as  far  as  the  epithet  applies." 

"To  collaborate,"  I  said  slowly.  "You    .    .    ." 

I  was  looking  at  a  miniature  of  the  Farnese 
Hercules — I  wondered  what  it  meant,  what  club 
had  struck  the  wheel  of  my  fortune  and  whirled 
it  into  this  astounding  attitude. 

"  Of  course  you  must  think  about  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  muttered;   "  the  idea  is  so 
new.     It's  so  little  in  my  line.     I  don't  know 
what  I  should  make  of  it." 
[  109] 


THE   INHERITORS 

I  talked  at  random.  There  were  so  many 
thoughts  jostling  in  my  head.  It  seemed  to  carry 
me  so  much  farther  from  the  kind  of  work  I 
wanted  to  do.  I  did  not  really  doubt  my  abiHty 
— one  does  not.  I  rather  regarded  it  as  work 
upon  a  lower  plane.  And  it  was  a  tremendous 
— an  incredibly  tremendous — opportunity. 

"  You  know  pretty  well  how  much  I've  done," 
he  continued.  "  I've  got  a  good  deal  of  material 
together  and  a  good  deal  of  the  actual  writing  is 
done.  But  there  is  ever  so  much  still  to  do.  It's 
getting  beyond  me,  as  I  said  just  now." 

I  looked  at  him  again,  rather  incredulously. 
He  stood  before  me,  a  thin  parallelogram  of  black 
with  a  mosaic  of  white  about  the  throat.  The 
slight  grotesqueness  of  the  man  made  him  almost 
impossibly  real  in  his  abstracted  earnestness.  He 
so  much  meant  what  he  said  that  he  ignored  what 
his  hands  were  doing,  or  his  body  or  his  head. 
He  had  taken  a  very  small,  very  dusty  book  out 
of  a  little  shelf  beside  him,  and  was  absently  turn- 
ing over  the  rusty  leaves,  while  he  talked  with 
his  head  bent  over  it.  What  was  I  to  him,  or 
he  to  me? 

"  I  could  give  my  Saturday  afternoons  to  it," 
[no] 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

he  was  saying,  ''  whenever  you  could  come 
down." 

"  It's  immensely  kind  of  you,"  I  began. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  he  waived.  "  I've  set 
my  heart  on  doing  it  and,  unless  you  help  me,  I 
don't  suppose  I  ever  shall  get  it  done." 

"  But  there  are  hundreds  of  others,"  I  said. 

"  There  may  be,"  he  said,  "  there  may  be. 
But  I  have  not  come  across  them." 

I  was  beset  by  a  sudden  emotion  of  blind  can- 
dour. 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  nonsense,"  I  said.  "  Don't 
you  see  that  you  are  offering  me  the  chance  of 
a  lifetime?  " 

Churchill  laughed. 

"  After  all,  one  cannot  refuse  to  take  what  of- 
fers," he  said.  "  Besides,  your  right  man  to  do 
the  work  might  not  suit  me  as  a  collaborator." 

"  It's  very  tempting,"  I  said. 

"  Why,  then,  succumb,"  he  smiled. 

I  could  not  find  arguments  against  him,  and 
I  succumbed  as  Jenkins  re-entered  the  room. 


[Ill] 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

AFTER  that  I  began  to  live,  as  one  lives; 
and  for  forty-nine  weeks.  I  know  it  was 
forty-nine,  because  I  got  fifty-two  atmos- 
pheres in  all;  Callan's  and  Churchill's,  and  those 
forty-nine  and  the  last  one  that  finished  the  job 
and  the  year  of  it.  It  was  amusing  work  in  its 
way;  people  mostly  preferred  to  have  their  at- 
mospheres taken  at  their  country  houses — it 
showed  that  they  had  them,  I  suppose.  Thus  I 
spent  a  couple  of  days  out  of  every  week  in  agree- 
able resorts,  and  people  were  very  nice  to  me — it 
was  part  of  the  game. 

So  I  had  a  pretty  good  time  for  a  year  and  en- 
joyed it,  probably  because  I  had  had  a  pretty 
bad  one  for  several  years.  I  filled  in  the  rest  of 
my  weeks  by  helping  Fox  and  collaborating  with 
Mr.  Churchill  and  adoring  Mrs.  Hartly  at  odd 
moments.  I  used  to  hang  about  the  office  of 
the  Hour  on  the  chance  of  snapping  up  a  blank 

[112) 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

three  lines  fit  for  a  subtle  puff  of  her.  Some- 
times they  were  too  hurried  to  be  subtle,  and 
then  Mrs.  Hartly  was  really  pleased. 

I  never  understood  her  in  the  least,  and  I  very 
much  doubt  whether  she  ever  understood  a  word 
I  said.  I  imagine  that  I  must  have  talked  to  her 
about  her  art  or  her  mission — things  obviously 
as  strange  to  her  as  to  the  excellent  Hartly  him- 
self. I  suppose  she  hadn't  any  art ;  I  am  certain 
she  hadn't  any  mission,  except  to  be  adored.  She 
walked  about  the  stage  and  one  adored  her,  just 
as  she  sat  about  her  flat  and  was  adored,  and  there 
the  matter  ended. 

As  for  Fox,  I  seemed  to  suit  him — I  don't  in 
the  least  know  why.  No  doubt  he  knew  me  bet- 
ter than  I  knew  myself.  He  used  to  get  hold 
of  me  whilst  I  was  hanging  about  the  office  on 
the  chance  of  engaging  space  for  Mrs.  Hartly, 
and  he  used  to  utilise  me  for  the  ignoblest  things. 
I  saw  men  for  him,  scribbled  notes  for  him,  abused 
people  through  the  telephone,  and  wrote  articles. 
Of  course,  there  were  the  pickings. 

I  never  understood  Fox — not  in  the  least,  not 
more  than  I  understood  Mrs.  Hartly.  He  had 
the  mannerisms  of  the  most  incredible  vulgarian 
[113] 


THE   INHERITORS 

and  had,  apparently,  the  point  of  view  of  a  pig. 
But  there  was  something  else  that  obscured  all 
that,  that  forced  one  to  call  him  a  zvondcrful  man. 
Everyone  called  him  that.  He  used  to  say  that 
he  knew  what  he  wanted  and  that  he  got  it,  and 
that  was  true,  too.  I  didn't  in  the  least  want  to 
do  his  odd  jobs,  even  for  the  ensuing  pickings, 
and  I  didn't  want  to  be  hail-fellow  with  him.  But 
I  did  them  and  I  was,  without  even  realising  that 
it  was  distasteful  to  me.  It  was  probably  the 
same  with  everybody  else. 

I  used  to  have  an  idea  that  I  was  going  to 
reform  him;  that  one  day  I  should  make  him 
convert  the  Hour  into  an  asylum  for  writers  of 
merit.  He  used  to  let  me  have  my  own  way 
sometimes — just  often  enough  to  keep  my  con- 
science from  inconveniencing  me.  He  let  me 
present  Lea  with  an  occasional  column  and  a 
half;  and  once  he  promised  me  that  one  day  he 
would  allow  me  to  get  the  atmosphere  of  Arthur 
Edwards,  the  novelist. 

Then  there  was  Churchill  and  the  Life  of 
Cromwell  that  progressed  slowly.  The  experi- 
ment succeeded  well  enough,  as  I  grew  less  domi- 
neering and  he  less  embarrassed.  Toward  the 
[114] 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

end  I  seemed  to  have  become  a  familiar  inmate 
of  his  house.  I  used  to  go  down  with  him  on 
Saturday  afternoons  and  we  talked  things  over  in 
the  train.  It  was,  to  an  idler  like  myself,  won- 
derful the  way  that  essential  idler's  days  were 
cut  out  and  fitted  in  like  the  squares  of  a  child's 
puzzle;  little  passages  of  work  of  one  kind  fitting 
into  quite  unrelated  passages  of  something  else. 
He  did  it  well,  too,  without  the  remotest  sem- 
blance of  hurry. 

I  suppose  that  actually  the  motive  power  was 
his  aunt.  People  used  to  say  so,  but  it  did  not 
appear  on  the  surface  to  anyone  in  close  contact 
with  the  man;  or  it  appeared  only  in  very  small 
things.  We  used  to  work  in  a  tall,  dark,  pleasant 
room,  book-lined,  and  giving  on  to  a  lawn  that 
was  always  an  asylum  for  furtive  thrushes.  Miss 
Churchill,  as  a  rule,  sat  half  forgotten  near  the 
window,  with  the  light  falling  over  her  shoulder. 
She  was  always  very  absorbed  in  papers;  seemed 
to  be  spending  laborious  days  in  answering  let- 
ters, in  evolving  reports.  Occasionally  she  ad- 
dressed a  question  to  her  nephew,  occasionally 
received  guests  that  came  informally  but  could 
not  be  refused  admittance.  Once  it  was  a  semi- 
[115] 


THE   INHERITORS 

royal  personage,  once  the  Due  de  Mersch,  my 
reputed  employer. 

The  latter,  I  remember,  was  announced  when 
Churchill  and  I  were  finally  finishing  our  account 
of  the  tremendous  passing  of  the  Protector,  In 
that  silent  room  I  had  a  vivid  sense  of  the  vast 
noise  of  the  storm  in  that  twilight  of  the  crown- 
ing mercy.  I  seemed  to  see  the  candles  a-flicker 
in  the  eddies  of  air  forced  into  the  gloomy  room; 
the  great  bed  and  the  portentous  uncouth  form 
that  struggled  in  the  shadows  of  the  hangings. 
Miss  Churchill  looked  up  from  the  card  that  had 
been  placed  in  her  hands. 

"  Edward,"  she  said,  "  the  Due  de  Mersch." 

Churchill  rose  irritably  from  his  low  seat. 
"Confound  him,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  see  him." 

"  You  can't  help  it,  I  think,"  his  aunt  said, 
reflectively;  "you  will  have  to  settle  it  sooner 
or  later." 

I  know  pretty  well  what  it  was  they  had  to 
settle — the  Greenland  affair  that  had  hung  in  the 
air  so  long.  I  knew  it  from  hearsay,  from  Fox, 
vaguely  enough.  Mr.  Gurnard  was  said  to 
recommend  it  for  financial  reasons,  the  Due  to 
be  eager,  Churchill  to  hang  back  unaccount- 
[116] 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

ably.  I  never  had  much  head  for  details  of  this 
sort,  but  people  used  to  explain  them  to  me — 
to  explain  the  reasons  for  de  Mersch's  eagerness. 
They  were  rather  shabby,  rather  incredible  rea- 
sons, that  sounded  too  reasonable  to  be  true.  He 
wanted  the  money  for  his  railways — wanted  it 
very  badly.  He  was  vastly  in  want  of  money, 
he  was  this,  that,  and  the  other  in  certain  inter- 
national-philanthropic concerns,  and  had  a  finger 
in  this,  that,  and  the  other  pie.  There  was  an 
"  All  Round  the  World  Cable  Company  "  that 
united  hearts  and  hands,  and  a  "  Pan-European 
Railway,  Exploration,  and  Civilisation  Company  " 
that  let  in  light  in  dark  places,  and  an  "  Inter- 
national Housing  of  the  Poor  Company,"  as  well 
as  a  number  of  others.  Somewhere  at  the  bot- 
tom of  these  seemingly  bottomless  concerns,  the 
Due  de  Mersch  was  said  to  be  moving,  and  the 
Hour  certainly  contained  periodically  complimen- 
tary allusions  to  their  higher  philanthropy  and 
dividend-earning  prospects.  But  that  was  as 
much  as  I  knew.  The  same  people — people  one 
met  in  smoking-rooms  —  said  that  the  Trans- 
Greenland  Railway  was  the  last  card  of  de  Mersch. 
British  investors  wouldn't  trust  the  Due  without 
[117] 


THE   INHERITORS 

some  sort  of  guarantee  from  the  British  Govern- 
ment, and  no  other  investor  would  trust  him  on 
any  terms.  England  was  to  guarantee  something 
or  other — the  interest  for  a  number  of  years,  I 
suppose.  I  didn't  believe  them,  of  course — one 
makes  it  a  practice  to  believe  nothing  of  the  sort. 
But  I  recognised  that  the  evening  was  momentous 
to  somebody — that  Mr.  Gurnard  and  the  Due  de 
Mersch  and  Churchill  were  to  discuss  something 
and  that  I  was  remotely  interested  because  the 
Hour  employed  me. 

Churchill  continued  to  pace  up  and  down. 

"  Gurnard  dines  here  to-night,"  his  aunt  said. 

"  Oh,  I  see."  His  hands  played  with  some 
coins  in  his  trouser-pockets.  "  I  see,"  he  said 
again,  "  they've     ..." 

The  occasion  impressed  me.  I  remember  very 
well  the  manner  of  both  nephew  and  aunt.  They 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  called  to  come  to  a  de- 
cision that  was  no  easy  one,  that  they  had  wished 
to  relegate  to  an  indefinite  future. 

She  left  Churchill  pacing  nervously  up  and 
down. 

"  I  could  go  on  with  something  else,  if  you 
like,"  I  said. 

f  118I 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

"  But  I  don't  like,"  he  said,  energetically;  "  I'd 
much  rather  not  see  the  man.  You  know  the 
sort  of  person  he  is." 

"  Why,  no,"  I  answered,  "  I  never  studied  the 
Almanac  de  Gotha." 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  he  said.  He  seemed  vexed 
with  himself. 

Churchill's  dinners  were  frequently  rather  try- 
ing to  me.  Personages  of  enormous  importance 
used  to  drop  in — and  reveal  themselves  as  rather 
asinine.  At  the  best  of  times  they  sat  dimly  op- 
posite to  me,  discomposed  me,  and  disappeared. 
Sometimes  they  stared  me  down.  That  night 
there  were  two  of  them. 

Gurnard  I  had  heard  of.  One  can't  help  hear- 
ing of  a  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  The  books 
of  reference  said  that  he  was  the  son  of  one  Will- 
iam Gurnard,  Esq.,  of  Grimsby;  but  I  remember 
that  once  in  my  club  a  man  who  professed  to 
know  everything,  assured  me  that  W.  Gurnard, 
Esq.  (whom  he  had  described  as  a  fish  salesman), 
was  only  an  adoptive  father.  His  rapid  rise 
seemed  to  me  inexplicable  till  the  same  man  ac- 
counted for  it  with  a  shrug:  "  When  a  man  of 
such  ability  believes  in  nothing,  and  sticks  at 
[119] 


THE   INHERITORS 

nothing,  there's  no  saying  how  far  he  may  go. 
He  has  kicked  away  every  ladder.  He  doesn't 
mean  to  come  down." 

This,  no  doubt,  explained  much;  but  not  every- 
thing in  his  fabulous  career.  His  adherents 
called  him  an  inspired  statesman;  his  enemies  set 
him  down  a  mere  politician.  He  was  a  man  of 
forty-five,  thin,  slightly  bald,  and  with  an  icy  as- 
surance of  manner.  He  was  indififerent  to  at- 
tacks upon  his  character,  but  crushed  mercilessly 
every  one  who  menaced  his  position.  He  stood 
alone,  and  a  little  mysterious;  his  own  party  was 
afraid  of  him. 

Gurnard  was  quite  hidden  from  me  by  table 
ornaments;  the  Due  de  Mersch  glowed  with 
light  and  talked  voluminously,  as  if  he  had  for 
years  and  years  been  starved  of  human  society. 
He  glowed  all  over,  it  seemed  to  me.  He  had  a 
glorious  beard,  that  let  one  see  very  little  of  his 
florid  face  and  took  the  edge  away  from  an  almost 
non-existent  forehead  and  depressingly  wrinkled 
eyelids.  He  spoke  excellent  English,  rather 
slowly,  as  if  he  were  forever  replying  to  toasts  to 
his  health.  It  struck  me  that  he  seemed  to  treat 
Churchill  in  nuances  as  an  inferior,  whilst  for  the 
[120] 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

invisible  Gurnard,  he  reserved  an  attitude  of 
nervous  self-assertion.  He  had  apparently  come 
to  dilate  on  the  Systhne  Groenlandais,  and  he 
dilated.  Some  mistaken  persons  had  insinuated 
that  the  Systhne  was  neither  more  nor  less  than 
a  corporate  exploitation  of  unhappy  Esquimaux. 
De  Mersch  emphatically  declared  that  those  mis- 
taken people  were  mistaken,  declared  it  with 
official  finaHty.  The  Esquimaux  were  not  un- 
happy. I  paid  attention  to  my  dinner,  and  let 
the  discourse  on  the  affairs  of  the  Hyperborean 
Protectorate  lapse  into  an  unheeded  murmur. 
I  tried  to  be  the  simple  amanuensis  at  the  feast. 

Suddenly,  however,  it  struck  me  that  de  Mersch 
was  talking  at  me;  that  he  had  by  the  merest 
shade  raised  his  intonation.  He  w^as  dilating  upon 
the  immense  international  value  of  the  proposed 
Trans-Greenland  Railway.  Its  importance  to 
British  trade  was  indisputable;  even  the  op- 
position had  no  serious  arguments  to  offer.  It 
was  the  obvious  duty  of  the  British  Government 
to  give  the  financial  guarantee.  He  would  not 
insist  upon  the  moral  aspect  of  the  work — it  was 
unnecessary.  Progress,  improvement,  civilisa- 
tion, a  little  less  evil  in  the  world — more  light!  It 
1 121  J 


THE    INHERITORS 

was  our  duty  not  to  count  the  cost  of  humanising 
a  lower  race.  Besides,  the  thing  would  pay  like 
another  Suez  Canal.  Its  terminus  and  the  Brit- 
ish coaling  station  would  be  on  the  west  coast  of 
the  island.  ...  I  knew  the  man  was  talking 
at  me — I  wondered  why. 

Suddenly  he  turned  his  glowing  countenance 
full  upon  me. 

"  I  think  I  must  have  met  a  member  of  your 
family,"  he  said.  The  solution  occurred  to  me. 
I  was  a  journalist,  he  a  person  interested  in  a  rail- 
way that  he  wished  the  Government  to  back  in 
some  way  or  another.  His  attempts  to  capture 
my  suffrage  no  longer  astonished  me.  I  mur- 
mured : 

"  Indeed! " 

"  In  Paris — Mrs.  Etchingham  Granger,"  he 
said. 

I  said,  "  Oh,  yes." 

Miss  Churchill  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  The  Due  de  Mersch  means  our  friend,  your 
aunt,"  she  explained.  I  had  an  unpleasant  sen- 
sation. Through  fronds  of  asparagus  fern  I 
caught  the  eyes  of  Gurnard  fixed  upon  me  as 
though  something  had  drawn  his  attention.     I 

[122] 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

returned  his  glance,  tried  to  make  his  face  out. 
It  had  nothing  distinctive  in  its  half-hidden  pallid 
oval;  nothing  that  one  could  seize  upon.  But  it 
gave  the  impression  of  never  having  seen  the  light 
of  day,  of  never  having  had  the  sun  upon  it.  But 
the  conviction  that  I  had  aroused  his  attention 
disturbed  me.  What  could  the  man  know  about 
me?  I  seemed  to  feel  his  glance  bore  through 
the  irises  of  my  eyes  into  the  back  of  my  skull. 
The  feeling  was  almost  physical;  it  was  as  if  some 
incredibly  concentrant  reflector  had  been  turned 
upon  me.  Then  the  eyelids  dropped  over  the 
metallic  rings  beneath  them.  Miss  Churchill 
continued  to  explain. 

"  She  has  started  a  sort  of  Salon  des  Causes 
Perdues  in  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain."  She 
was  recording  the  vagaries  of  my  aunt.  The 
Due  laughed. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "  what  a  menagerie — Car- 
lists,  and  Orleanists,  and  Papal  Blacks.  I  wonder 
she  has  not  held  a  bazaar  in  favour  of  your  White 
Rose  League." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  I  echoed,  "  I  have  heard  that  she 
was  mad  about  the  divine  right  of  kings." 

Miss  Churchill  rose,  as  ladies  rise  at  the  end  of 
[123] 


THE   INHERITORS 

a  dinner.  I  followed  her  out  of  the  room,  in 
obedience  to  some  minute  signal. 

We  were  on  the  best  of  terms — we  two.  She 
mothered  me,  as  she  mothered  everybody  not 
beneath  contempt  or  above  a  certain  age.  I  liked 
her  immensely — the  masterful,  absorbed,  brown 
lady.  As  she  walked  up  the  stairs,  she  said,  in 
half  apology  for  withdrawing  me. 

"  They've  got  things  to  talk  about." 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  answered;  "  I  suppose  the  rail- 
way matter  has  to  be  settled."  She  looked  at 
me  fixedly. 

"  You — you  mustn't  talk,"  she  warned. 

"  Oh,"  I  answered,  "  I'm  not  indiscreet — not 
essentially." 

The  other  three  were  somewhat  tardy  in  mak- 
ing their  drawing-room  appearance.  I  had  a 
sense  of  them,  leaning  their  heads  together  over 
the  edges  of  the  table.  In  the  interim  a  rather 
fierce  political  dowager  convoyed  two  well-con- 
trolled, blond  daughters  into  the  room.  There 
was  a  continual  coming  and  going  of  such  people 
in  the  house;  they  did  with  Miss  Churchill  social 
business  of  some  kind,  arranged  electoral  raree- 
shows,  and  what  not;  troubled  me  very  little. 
[124] 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

On  this  occasion  the  blond  daughters  were  types 
of  the  sixties'  survivals — the  type  that  unemo- 
tionally inspected  albums.  I  was  convoying  them 
through  a  volume  of  views  of  Switzerland,  the 
dowager  was  saying  to  Miss  Churchill: 

"  You  think,  then,  it  will  be  enough  if  we  have 
.  .  . "  When  the  door  opened  behind  my 
back.  I  looked  round  negligently  and  hastily 
returned  to  the  consideration  of  a  shining  photo- 
graph of  the  Dent  du  Midi.  A  very  gracious 
figure  of  a  girl  was  embracing  the  grim  Miss 
Churchill,  as  a  gracious  girl  should  virginally 
salute  a  grim  veteran. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Churchill!  "  a  fluting  voice 
filled  the  large  room,  "  we  were  very  nearly  going 
back  to  Paris  without  once  coming  to  see  you. 
We  are  only  over  for  two  days — for  the  Tenants' 
Ball,  and  so  my  aunt  .  .  .  but  surely  that 
is  Arthur.     ..." 

I  turned  eagerly.  It  was  the  Dimensionist 
girl.  She  continued  talking  to  Miss  Churchill. 
"  We  meet  so  seldom,  and  we  are  never  upon 
terms,"  she  said  lightly.  "  I  assure  you  we  are 
like  cat  and  dog."  She  came  toward  me  and 
the  blond  maidens  disappeared,  everybody,  every- 
[125] 


THE   INHERITORS 

thing  disappeared.  I  had  not  seen  her  for  nearly 
a  year.  I  had  vaguely  gathered  from  Miss 
Churchill  that  she  was  regarded  as  a  sister  of 
mine,  that  she  had,  with  wealth  inherited  from 
a  semi-fabulous  Australian  uncle,  revived  the 
glories  of  my  aunt's  house.  I  had  never  denied 
it,  because  I  did  not  want  to  interfere  with  my 
aunt's  attempts  to  regain  some  of  the  family's 
prosperity.  It  even  had  my  sympathy  to  a  small 
extent,  for,  after  all,  the  family  was  my  family 
too. 

As  a  memory  my  pseudo-sister  had  been  some- 
thing bright  and  clear-cut  and  rather  small;  seen 
now,  she  was  something  that  one  could  not  look 
at  for  glow.  She  moved  toward  me,  smiling  and 
radiant,  as  a  ship  moves  beneath  towers  of  shin- 
ing canvas.  I  was  simply  overwhelmed.  I  don't 
know  what  she  said,  what  I  said,  what  she  did 
or  I.  I  have  an  idea  that  we  conversed  for  some 
minutes.  I  remember  that  she  said,  at  some 
point, 

"  Go  away  now;  I  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Gur- 
nard." 

As  a  matter  of  fact.  Gurnard  was  making 
toward  her — a  deliberate,  slow  progress.  She 
[126] 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

greeted  him  with  nonchalance,  as,  beneath  eyes, 
a  woman  greets  a  man  she  knows  intimately.  I 
found  myself  hating  him,  thinking  that  he  was 
not  the  sort  of  man  she  ought  to  know. 

"It's  settled?"  she  asked  him,  as  hje  came 
within  range.  He  looked  at  me  inquiringly — in- 
solently. She  said,  "  My  brother,"  and  he  an- 
swered : 

"  Oh,  yes,"  as  I  moved  away.  I  hated  the 
man  and  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  ofif  him  and 
her.  I  went  and  stood  against  the  mantel-piece. 
The  Due  de  Mersch  bore  down  upon  them,  and 
I  welcomed  his  interruption  until  I  saw  that  he, 
too,  was  intimate  with  her,  intimate  with  a  pom- 
posity of  flourishes  as  irritating  as  Gurnard's 
nonchalance. 

I  stood  there  and  glowered  at  them.  I  noted 
her  excessive  beauty;  her  almost  perilous  self- 
possession  while  she  stood  talking  to  those  two 
men.  Of  me  there  was  nothing  left  but  the 
eyes.  I  had  no  mind,  no  thoughts.  I  saw  the 
three  figures  go  through  the  attitudes  of  con- 
versation— she  very  animated,  de  Mersch  gro- 
tesquely empresse,  Gurnard  undisguisedly  satur- 
nine. He  repelled  me  exactly  as  grossly  vulgar 
[127] 


THE   INHERITORS 

men  had  the  power  of  doing,  but  he,  himself,  was 
not  that— there  was  something  .  .  .  some- 
thing. I  could  not  quite  make  out  his  face,  I 
never  could.  I  never  did,  any  more  than  I  could 
ever  quite  visualise  hers.  I  wondered  vaguely 
how  Churchill  could  work  in  harness  with  such 
a  man,  how  he  could  bring  himself  to  be  closeted, 
as  he  had  just  been,  with  him  and  with  a  fool  like 
de  Mersch — I  should  have  been  afraid. 

As  for  de  Mersch,  standing  between  those  two, 
he  seemed  like  a  country  lout  between  confed- 
erate sharpers.  It  struck  me  that  she  let  me  see, 
made  me  see,  that  she  and  Gurnard  had  an  un- 
derstanding, made  manifest  to  me  by  glances  that 
passed  when  the  Due  had  his  unobservant  eyes 
turned  elsewhere. 

I  saw  Churchill,  in  turn,  move  desultorily  to- 
ward them,  drawn  in,  like  a  straw  toward  a  lit- 
tle whirlpool.  I  turned  my  back  in  a  fury  of 
jealousy. 


[128] 


CHAPTER   NINE 

I  HAD  a  pretty  bad  night  after  that,  and  was 
not  much  in  the  mood  for  Fox  on  the  mor- 
row. The  sight  of  her  had  dwarfed  every- 
thing; the  thought  of  her  disgusted  me  with 
everything,  made  me  out  of  conceit  with  the  world 
— with  that  part  of  the  world  that  had  become  my 
world.  I  wanted  to  get  up  into  hers — and  I  could 
not  see  any  way.  The  room  in  which  Fox  sat 
seemed  to  be  hopelessly  ofif  the  road — to  be  hope- 
lessly off  any  road  to  any  place;  to  be  the  end  of 
a  blind  alley.  One  day  I  might  hope  to  occupy 
such  a  room — in  my  shirt-sleeves,  like  Fox.  But 
that  was  not  the  end  of  my  career — not  the  en3 
that  I  desired.     She  had  upset  me. 

'*  You've  just  missed  Polehampton,"  Fox  said; 
"  wanted  to  get  hold  of  your  '  Atmospheres.'  " 

"  Oh,  damn  Polehampton,"  I  said,  "  and  par- 
ticularly damn  the  '  Atmospheres.'  " 

"  Willingly,"  Fox  said,  "  but  I  told  Mr.  P.  that 
you  were  willing  if     .     .     ." 
[129] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  I  don't  want  to  know,"  I  repeated.  "  I  tell 
you  I'm  sick  of 'the  things." 

"  What  a  change,"  he  asserted,  sympathetically, 
"  I  thought  you  would." 

It  struck  me  as  disgusting  that  a  person  like 
Fox  should  think  about  me  at  all.  "  Oh,  I'll  see 
it  through,"  I  said.     "  Who's  the  next?  " 

"  We've  got  to  have  the  Due  de  Mersch  now," 
he  answered,  "  De  Mersch  as  State  Founder — 
written  as  large  as  you  can — all  across  the  page. 
The  moment's  come  and  we've  got  to  rope  it  in, 
that's  all.  I've  been  middling  good  to  you  .  .  . 
You  understand     .     .     ." 

He  began  to  explain  in  his  dark  sentences.  The 
time  had  come  for  an  energetically  engineered 
boom  in  de  Mersch — a  boom  all  along  the  line. 
And  I  was  to  commence  the  campaign.  Fox 
had  been  good  to  me  and  I  was  to  repay  him.  I 
listened  in  a  sort  of  apathetic  indifference. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  I  said.  I  was  subconsciously 
aware  that,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  the  deter- 
mining factor  of  the  situation  was  the  announce- 
ment that  de  Mersch  was  to  be  in  Paris.  If  he 
had  been  in  his  own  particular  grand  duchy  I 
wouldn't  have  gone  after  him.  For  a  moment 
[130] 


CHAPTER  NINE 
I  thought  of  the  interview  as  taking  place  in 
London.  But  Fox — ostensibly,  at  least — wasn't 
even  aware  of  de  Mersch's  visit;  spoke  of  him 
as  being  in  Paris — in  a  flat  in  which  he  was  ac- 
customed to  interview  the  continental  financiers 
who  took  up  so  much  of  his  time. 

I  realised  that  I  wanted  to  go  to  Paris  be- 
cause she  was  there.  She  had  said  that  she  was 
going  to  Paris  on  the  morrow  of  yesterday. 
The  name  was  pleasant  to  me,  and  it  turned 
the  scale. 

Fox's  eyes  remained  upon  my  face. 

"  Do  you  good,  eh?  "  he  dimly  interpreted  my 
thoughts.  "  A  run  over.  I  thought  you'd  like 
it  and,  look  here,  Polehampton's  taken  over  the 
Bi-Monihly;  wants  to  get  new  blood  into  it,  see? 
He'd  take  something.  Pve  been  talking  to  him 
— a  short  series.  .  .  .  '  Aspects.'  That  sort 
of  thing."  I  tried  to  work  myself  into  some  sort 
of  enthusiasm  of  gratitude.  I  knew  that  Fox  had 
spoken  well  of  me  to  Polehampton — as  a  sort  of 
set  off. 

"  You  go  and  see  Mr.  P.,"  he  confirmed;  "  it's 
really  all  arranged.    And  then  get  off  to  Paris  as 
fast  as  you  can  and  have  a  good  time." 
[131] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  Have  I  been  unusually  cranky  lately?  "  I 
asked. 

"  Oh,  you've  been  a  little  off  the  hooks,  I 
thought,  for  the  last  week  or  so." 

He  took  up  a  large  bottle  of  white  mucilage, 
and  I  accepted  it  as  a  sign  of  dismissal.  I  was 
touched  by  his  solicitude  for  my  health.  It  al- 
ways did  touch  me,  and  I  found  myself  unusually 
broad-minded  in  thought  as  I  went  down  the 
terra-cotta  front  steps  into  the  streets.  For  all 
his  frank  vulgarity,  for  all  his  shirt-sleeves — I 
somehow  regarded  that  habit  of  his  as  the  final 
mark  of  the  Beast — and  the  Louis  Quinze  acces- 
sories, I  felt  a  warm  good-feeling  for  the  little 
man. 

I  made  haste  to  see  Polehampton,  to  beard  him 
in  a  sort  of  den  that  contained  a  number  of  shelves 
of  books  selected  for  their  glittering  back  decora- 
tion. They  gave  the  impression  that  Mr.  Pole- 
hampton wished  to  suggest  to  his  visitors  the  fit- 
ness and  propriety  of  clothing  their  walls  with  the 
same  gilt  cloth.  They  gave  that  idea,  but  I  think 
that,  actually,  Mr.  Polehampton  took  an  aesthetic 
delight  in  the  gilding.  He  was  not  a  publisher 
by  nature.  He  had  drifted  into  the  trade  and 
[132] 


CHAPTER   NINE 

success,  but  beneath  a  polish  of  acquaintance  re- 
tained a  fine  awe  for  a  book  as  such.  In  early  life 
he  had  had  such  shining  things  on  a  shiny  table  in 
a  parlour.  He  had  a  similar  awe  for  his  daugh- 
ter, who  had  been  born  after  his  entry  into  the 
trade,  and  who  had  the  literary  flavour — a  flavour 
so  pronounced  that  he  dragged  her  by  the  heels 
into  any  conversation  with  us  who  hewed  his  raw 
material,  expecting,  I  suppose,  to  cow  us.  For 
the  greater  good  of  this  young  lady  he  had  bought 
the  Bi-Monthly — one  of  the  portentous  political 
organs.  He  had,  they  said,  ideas  of  forcing  a 
seat  out  of  the  party  as  a  recompense. 

It  didn't  matter  much  what  was  the  nature  of 
my  series  of  articles.  I  was  to  get  the  atmosphere 
of  cities  as  I  had  got  those  of  the  various  indi- 
viduals. I  seemed  to  pay  on  those  lines,  and  Miss 
Polehampton  commended  me. 

"  My  daughter  likes  .  .  .  eh  .  .  .  your 
touch,  you  know,  and  .  .  ."  His  terms  were 
decent — for  the  man,  and  were  offered  with  a 
flourish  that  indicated  special  benevolence  and 
a  reference  to  the  hundred  pounds.  I  was  at  a 
loss  to  account  for  his  manner  until  he  began  to 
stammer  out  an  indication.  Its  lines  were  that 
[133] 


THE    INHERITORS 

I  knew  Fox,  and  I  knew  Churchill  and  the  Due 
de  Mersch,  and  the  Hour.  "  And  those  financial 
articles  ...  in  the  Hour  .  .  .  were  they 
now?  .  .  .  Were  they  .  .  .  was  the  Trans- 
Greenland  railway  actually  .  .  .  did  I  think 
it  would  be  worth  one's  while  ...  in  fact 
.     .     ."  and  so  on. 

I  never  was  any  good  in  a  situation  of  that  sort, 
never  any  good  at  all.  I  ought  to  have  assumed 
blank  ignorance,  but  the  man's  eyes  pleaded;  it 
seemed  a  tremendous  matter  to  him.  I  tried  to  be 
non-committal,  and  said:  "  Of  course  I  haven't 
any  right."  But  I  had  a  vague,  stupid  sense  that 
loyalty  to  Churchill  demanded  that  I  should 
back  up  a  man  he  was  backing.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  nothing  so  direct  was  a-gate,  it  couldn't 
have  been.  It  was  something  about  shares  in  one 
of  de  Mersch's  other  enterprises.  Polehampton 
was  going  to  pick  them  up  for  nothing,  and  they 
were  going  to  rise  when  the  boom  in  de  Mersch's 
began — something  of  the  sort.  And  the  boom 
would  begin  as  soon  as  the  news  of  the  agree- 
ment about  the  railway  got  abroad. 

I  let  him  get  it  out  of  me  in  a  way  that  makes 
the  thought  of  that  bare  place  with  its  gilt  book- 
[134] 


CHAPTER  NINE 
backs  and  its  three  uncomfortable  office-chairs 
and  the  ground-glass  windows  through  which  one 
read  the  inversion  of  the  legend  "  Polehampton," 
all  its  gloom  and  its  rigid  lines  and  its  pallid  light, 
a  memory  of  confusion.  And  Polehampton  was 
properly  grateful,  and  invited  me  to  dine  with  him 
and  his  phantasmal  daughter — who  wanted  to 
make  my  acquaintance.  It  was  like  a  command 
to  a  state  banquet  given  by  a  palace  official,  and 
Lea  would  be  invited  to  meet  me.  Miss  Pole- 
hampton did  not  like  Lea,  but  he  had  to  be  asked 
once  a  year — to  encourage  good  feeling,  I  sup- 
pose. The  interview  dribbled  out  on  those  lines. 
I  asked  if  it  was  one  of  Lea's  days  at  the  office. 
It  was  not.  I  tried  to  put  in  a  good  word  for 
Lea,  but  it  was  not  very  effective.  Polehampton 
was  too  subject  to  his  assistant's  thorns  to  be 
responsive  to  praise  of  him. 

So  I  hurried  out  of  the  place.  I  wanted  to  be 
out  of  this  medium  in  which  my  ineffectiveness 
threatened  to  proclaim  itself  to  me.  It  was  not  a 
very  difficult  matter.  I  had,  in  those  days,  rooms 
in  one  of  the  political  journalists'  clubs — a  vast 
mausoleum  of  white  tiles.  But  a  man  used  to 
pack  my  portmanteau  very  efficiently  and  at  short 
[135] 


THE    INHERITORS 

notice.  At  the  station  one  of  those  coincidences 
that  are  not  coincidences  made  me  run  against  the 
great  Callan.  He  was  rather  unhappy — found  it 
impossible  to  make  an  already  distracted  porter 
listen  to  the  end  of  one  of  his  sentences  with  two- 
second  waits  between  each  word.  For  that  rea- 
son he  brightened  to  see  me — was  delighted  to 
find  a  through-journey  companion  who  would 
take  him  on  terms  of  greatness.  In  the  railway 
carriage,  divested  of  troublesome  bags  that  im- 
parted anxiety  to  his  small  face  and  a  stagger  to 
his  walk,  he  swelled  to  his  normal  dimensions. 

"  So  you're — going  to — Paris,"  he  meditated, 
"  for  the  Hour.'" 

"  I'm  going  to  Paris  for  the  Hour,''  I  agreed. 

"  Ah!  "  he  went  on,  "  you're  going  to  interview 
the  Elective  Grand  Duke     .     .     ." 

"  We  call  him  the  Due  de  Mersch,"  I  inter- 
rupted, flippantly.  It  was  a  matter  of  nuances. 
The  Elective  Grand  Duke  was  a  philanthropist 
and  a  State  Founder,  the  Due  de  Mersch  was  the 
hero  as  financier. 

"  Of    Holstein-Launewitz,"    Callan    ignored. 
The  titles  slipped  over  his  tongue  like  the  last 
drops  of  some  inestimable  oily  vintage. 
[136] 


CHAPTER   NINE 

"  I  might  have  saved  you  the  trouble.  I'm  go 
ing  to  see  him  myself," 

"  You,"  I  italicised.  It  struck  me  as  phe- 
nomenal and  rather  absurd  that  everybody  that  I 
came  across  should,  in  some  way  or  other,  be 
mixed  up  with  this  portentous  philanthropist.  It 
was  as  if  a  fisherman  were  drawing  in  a  ground 
line  baited  with  hundreds  of  hooks.  He  had  a  lit- 
tle offended  air. 

"  He,  or,  I  should  say,  a  number  of  people  in- 
terested in  a  philanthropic  society,  have  asked  me 
to  go  to  Greenland." 

"  Do  they  want  to  get  rid  of  you?  "  I  asked, 
flippantly.     I  was  made  to  know  my  place. 

'*  My  dear  fellow,"  Callan  said,  in  his  most  de- 
liberate, most  Olympian  tone.  "  I  believe  you're 
entirely  mistaken,  I  believe  .  .  .  I've  been 
informed  that  the  Systeme  Groenlandais  is  one  of 
the  healthiest  places  in  the  Polar  regions.  There 
are  interested  persons  who     .     .     ." 

"  So  I've  heard,"  I  interrupted,  "  but  I  can  as- 
sure you  I've  heard  nothing  but  good  of  the 
Systeme  and  the  .  .  .  and  its  philanthropists. 
I  meant  nothing  against  them.  I  was  only  aston- 
ished that  you  should  go  to  such  a  place." 
[137] 


THE    INHERITORS 
"  I  have  been  asked  to  go  upon  a  mission,"  he 

explained,  seriously,  "  to  ascertain  what  the  truth 
about  the  Systeme  really  is.  It  is  a  new  country 
with,  I  am  assured,  a  great  future  in  store.  A 
great  deal  of  English  money  has  been  invested  in 
its  securities,  and  naturally  great  interest  is  taken 
in  its  afifairs." 

"  So  it  seems,"  I  said,  "  I  seem  to  run  upon  it 
at  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night." 

*'  Ah,  yes,"  Callan  rhapsodised,  "  it  has  a  great 
future  in  store,  a  great  future.  The  Duke  is  a  true 
philanthropist.  He  has  taken  infinite  pains — in- 
finite pains.  He  wished  to  build  up  a  model  state, 
the  model  protectorate  of  the  world,  a  place  where 
perfect  equality  shall  obtain  for  all  races,  all  creeds, 
and  all  colours.  You  would  scarcely  believe  how 
he  has  worked  to  ensure  the  happiness  of  the 
native  races.  He  founded  the  great  society  to 
protect  the  Esquimaux,  the  Society  for  the  Re- 
generation of  the  Arctic  Regions — the  S.  R.  A.  R. 
— as  you  called  it,  and  now  he  is  only  waiting  to 
accomplish  his  greatest  project — the  Trans- 
Greenland  railway.  When  that  is  done,  he  will 
hand  over  the  Systeme  to  his  own  people.  That 
is  the  act  of  a  great  man." 
[138] 


CHAPTER   NINE 

"  Ah,  yes,"  I  said. 

"  Well,"  Callan  began  again,  but  suddenly- 
paused.  "  By-the-bye,  this  must  go  no  farther," 
he  said,  anxiously,  "  I  will  let  you  have  full  par- 
ticulars when  the  time  is  ripe." 

"  My  dear  Callan,"  I  said,  touchily, ''  I  can  hold 
my  tongue." 

He  went  off  at  tangent. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  take  my  word — I  haven't 
seen  it  yet.  But  I  feel  assured  about  it  myself. 
The  most  distinguished  people  have  spoken  to  me 
in  its  favour.  The  celebrated  traveller,  Aston, 
spoke  of  it  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  was  the  first 
governor-general,  you  know.  Of  course  I  should 
not  take  any  interest  in  it,  if  I  were  not  satisfied 
as  to  that.  It  is  percisely  because  I  feel  that  the 
thing  is  one  of  the  finest  monuments  of  a  grand 
century  that  I  am  going  to  lend  it  the  weight  of 
my  pen." 

"'  I  quite  understand,"  I  assured  him;  then,  so- 
licitously, "  I  hope  they  don't  expect  you  to  do 
it  for  nothing." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  Callan  answered. 

"  Ah,  well,  I  wish  you  luck,"  I  said.  "  They 
couldn't  have  got  a  better  man  to  win  over  the 
[139] 


THE   INHERITORS 

National  conscience.  I  suppose  it  comes  to 
that." 

Callan  nodded. 

"  I  fancy  I  have  the  ear  of  the  public,"  he  said. 
He  seemed  to  get  satisfaction  from  the  thought. 

The  train  entered  Folkestone  Harbour.  The 
smell  of  the  sea  and  the  easy  send  of  the  boat  put 
a  little  heart  into  me,  but  my  spirits  were  on  the 
down  grade.  Callan  was  a  trying  companion. 
The  sight  of  him  stirred  uneasy  emotions,  the 
sound  of  his  voice  jarred. 

"  Are  you  coming  to  the  Grand?  "  he  said,  as 
we  passed  St.  Denis, 

"  My  God,  no,"  I  answered,  hotly,  "  I'm  going 
across  the  river." 

"  Ah,"  he  murmured,  "  the  Quartier  Latin.  I 
wish  I  could  come  with  you.  But  I've  my  repu- 
tation to  think  of.  You'd  be  surprised  how  peo- 
ple get  to  hear  of  my  movements.  Besides,  I'm 
a  family  man." 

I  was  agitatedly  silent.  The  train  steamed  into 
the  glare  of  the  electric  lights,  and,  getting  into 
a  fiacre,  I  breathed  again.  I  seemed  to  be  at  the 
entrance  of  a  new  life,  a  better  sort  of  paradise, 
during  that  drive  across  the  night  city.  In  Lon- 
[  140] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

don  one  /s  always  a  passenger,  in  Paris  one  has 
reached  a  goal.  The  crowds  on  the  pavements, 
under  the  plane-trees,  in  the  black  shadows,  in 
the  white  glare  of  the  open  spaces,  are  at  leisure 
— they  go  nowhere,  seek  nothing  beyond. 

We  crossed  the  river,  the  unwinking  towers  of 
Notre  Dame  towering  pallidly  against  the  dark 
sky  behind  us;  rattled  into  the  new  light  of  the 
resuming  boulevard;  turned  up  a  dark  street,  and 
came  to  a  halt  before  a  half-familiar  shut  door. 
You  know  how  one  wakes  the  sleepy  concierge, 
how  one  takes  one's  candle,  climbs  up  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  smooth  stairs,  following  the  slip- 
shod footfalls  of  a  half-awakened  guide  upward 
through  Rembrandt's  own  shadows,  and  how 
one's  final  sleep  is  sweetened  by  the  little  incon- 
veniences of  a  strange  bare  room  and  of  a  strange 
hard  bed. 


[141] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

BEFORE  noon  of  the  next  day  I  was 
ascending  the  stairs  of  the  new  house  in 
which  the  Due  had  his  hermitage.  There 
was  an  air  of  secrecy  in  the  broad  publicity  of  the 
carpeted  stairs  that  led  to  his  f^at;  a  hush  in  the 
atmosphere;  in  the  street  itself,  a  glorified  cul  de 
sac  that  ran  into  the  bustling  life  of  the  Italiens. 
It  had  the  sudden  sluggishness  of  a  back-water. 
One  seemed  to  have  grown  suddenly  deaf  in  the 
midst  of  the  rattle. 

There  was  an  incredible  suggestion  of  silence 
— the  silence  of  a  private  detective — in  the  mien 
of  the  servant  who  ushered  me  into  a  room.  He 
was  the  English  servant  of  the  theatre — the  Eng- 
lish servant  that  foreigners  affect.  The  room  had 
a  splendour  of  its  own,  not  a  cheaply  vulgar  splen- 
dour, but  the  vulgarity  of  the  most  lavish  plush 
and  purple  kind.  The  air  was  heavy,  killed  by  the 
scent  of  exotic  flowers,  darkened  by  curtains  that 
suggested  the  voluminous  velvet  backgrounds 
of  certain  old  portraits.  The  Due  de  Mersch  had 
[142] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

carried  with  him  into  this  place  of  retirement  the 
taste  of  the  New  Palace,  that  show-place  of  his 
that  was  the  stupefaction  of  swarms  of  honest 
tourists. 

I  remembered  soon  enough  that  the  man  was 
a  philanthropist,  that  he  might  be  an  excellent 
man  of  heart  and  indifferent  of  taste.  He  must 
be.  But  I  was  prone  to  be  influenced  by  things 
of  this  sort,  and  felt  depressed  at  the  thought 
that  so  much  of  royal  excellence  should  weigh 
so  heavily  in  the  wrong  scale  of  the  balance  of 
the  applied  arts.  I  turned  my  back  on  the  room 
and  gazed  at  the  blazing  white  decorations  of  the 
opposite  house-fronts. 

A  door  behind  me  must  have  opened,  for  I 
heard  the  sounds  of  a  concluding  tirade  in  a  high- 
pitched  voice. 

"  Et  quant  a  iin  due  de  farce,  je  tie  in  en  Rche 
pas  mal,  moi,"  it  said  in  an  accent  curiously  com- 
pounded of  the  foreign  and  the  coulisse.  A  mut- 
tered male  remonstrance  ensued,  and  then,  with 
disconcerting  clearness: 

"  Gr-r-rangeur — EscJiingan  —  eh  bicn  —  il  en- 
tend.  Et  nioi,  feniends,  moi  aussi.  Tu  veux 
me  joucr  contrc  clle.  La  Grangeur — pah!  Con- 
[  143  ] 


THE   INHERITORS 

soles-toi  avec  elk,  mon  vietix.  Je  ne  veux  plus 
de  toi.  Tu  m'as  donne  de  tes  sales  renins  Groen- 
landoises,  et  je  n'ai  pas  pu  les  vendre.  Ah,  vieux 
farceur,  tu  vas  voir  ce  que  fen  vats  faire." 

A  glorious  creature — a  really  glorious  creature 
■ — came  out  of  an  adjoining  room.  She  was  as 
frail,  as  swaying  as  a  garden  lily.  Her  great  blue 
eyes  turned  irefully  upon  mCj  her  bowed  lips 
parted,  her  nostrils  quivered. 

"  Et  quani  a  vous,  M.  Grangeur  Eschingan,'' 
she  began,  "  je  vais  vous  donner  mon  idee  a 
moi     .     .     ." 

I  did  not  understand  the  situation  in  the  least, 
but  I  appreciated  the  awkwardness  of  it.  The 
world  seemed  to  be  standing  on  its  head.  I  was 
overcome;  but  I  felt  for  the  person  in  the  next 
room.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Suddenly  I 
found  myself  saying: 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry,  madam,  but  I  don't 
understand  French."  An  expression  of  more  in- 
tense vexation  passed  into  her  face — her  beautiful 
face.  I  fancy  she  wished — wished  intensely — to 
give  me  the  benefit  of  her  "  idee  a  elle."  She  made 
a  quick,  violent  gesture  of  disgusted  contempt, 
and  turned  toward  the  half-open  door  from  which 
[  144] 


CHAPTER  TEN 
she  had  come.  She  began  again  to  dilate  upon 
the  little  weaknesses  of  the  person  behind,  when 
silently  and  swiftly  it  closed.  We  heard  the  lock 
click.  With  extraordinary  quickness  she  had 
her  mouth  at  the  keyhole:  "  Peeg,  peeg,"  she 
enunciated.  Then  she  stood  to  her  full  height, 
her  face  became  calm,  her  manner  stately.  She 
glided  half  way  across  the  room,  paused,  looked 
at  me,  and  pointed  toward  the  unmoving  door. 

"  Peeg,  peeg/'  she  explained,  mysteriously.  I 
think  she  was  warning  me  against  the  wiles  of  the 
person  behind  the  door.  I  gazed  into  her  great 
eyes.  "  I  understand,"  I  said,  gravely.  She 
glided  from  the  room.  For  me  the  incident  sup- 
plied a  welcome  touch  of  comedy.  I  had  leisure 
for  thought.  The  door  remained  closed.  It 
made  the  Due  a  more  real  person  for  me.  I  had 
regarded  him  as  a  rather  tiresome  person  in 
whom  a  pompous  philanthropism  took  the  place 
of  human  feelings.  It  amused  me  to  be  called  Le 
Grangeur.  It  amused  me,  and  I  stood  in  need 
of  amusement.  Without  it  I  might  never  have 
written  the  article  on  the  Due.  I  had  started  out 
that  morning  in  a  state  of  nervous  irritation.  I 
had  wanted  more  than  ever  to  have  done  with 
[145] 


THE    INHERITORS 

,  the  thing,  with  the  Hour,  with  journalism,  with 
everything.  But  this  little  new  experience 
buoyed  me  up,  set  my  mind  working  in  less  mor- 
bid lines.  I  began  to  wonder  whether  de  Mersch 
would  funk,  or  whether  he  would  take  my  non- 
comprehension  of  the  woman's  tirades  as  a  thing 
assured. 

The  door  at  which  I  had  entered,  by  which  she 
had  left,  opened. 

He  must  have  impressed  me  in  some  way  or 
other  that  evening  at  the  Churchills.  He  seemed 
a  very  stereotyped  image  in  my  memory.  He 
spoke  just  as  he  had  spoken,  moved  his  hands  just 
as  I  expected  him  to  move  them.  He  called  for 
no  modification  of  my  views  of  his  person.  As  a 
rule  one  classes  a  man  so-and-so  at  first  meeting, 
modifies  the  classification  at  each  subsequent  one, 
and  so  on.  He  seemed  to  be  all  affability,  of  an 
adipose  turn.  He  had  the  air  of  the  man  of  the 
world  among  men  of  the  world;  but  none  of  the 
unconscious  reserve  of  manner  that  one  expects 
to  find  in  the  temporarily  great.  He  had  in  its 
place  a  kind  of  sub-sulkiness,  as  if  he  regretted 
the  pedestal  from  w'hich  he  had  descended. 

In  his  slow  commercial  English  he  apologised 
[146] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

for  having  kept  me  waiting;  he  had  been  taking 
the  air  of  this  fine  morning,  he  said.  He  mum- 
bled the  words  with  his  eyes  on  my  waistcoat,  with 
an  air  that  accorded  rather  ill  with  the  semblance 
of  portentous  probity  that  his  beard  conferred  on 
him.  But  he  set  an  eye-glass  in  his  left  eye  im- 
mediately afterward,  and  looked  straight, at  me 
as  if  in  challenge.  With  a  smiling  "  Don't  men- 
tion," I  tried  to  demonstrate  that  I  met  him  half 
way. 

"  You  want  to  interview  me,"  he  said,  blandly. 
"  I  am  only  too  pleased.  I  suppose  it  is  about 
my  Arctic  schemes  that  you  wish  to  know.  I 
will  do  what  I  can  to  inform  you.  You  perhaps 
remember  what  I  said  when  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  at  the  house  of  the  Right  Honour- 
able Mr.  Churchill.  It  has  been  the  dream  of  my 
life  to  leave  behind  me  a  happy  and  contented 
State — as  much  as  laws  and  organisation  can 
make  one.  This  is  what  I  should  most  like  the 
English  to  know  of  me."  He  was  a  dull  talker. 
I  supposed  that  philanthropists  and  state  founders 
kept  their  best  faculties  for  their  higher  pursuits. 
I  imagined  the  low,  receding  forehead  and  the 
pink-nailed,  fleshy  hands  to  belong  to  a  new 
[147] 


THE   INHERITORS 

Solon,  a  latter-day  .^neas.  I  tried  to  work  my- 
self into  the  properly  enthusiastic  frame  of  mind. 
After  all,  it  was  a  great  work  that  he  had  under- 
taken. I  was  too  much  given  to  dwell  upon  in- 
tellectual gifts.  These  the  Due  seemed  to  lack. 
I  credited  him  with  having  let  them  be  merged 
in  his  one  noble  idea. 

He  furnished  me  with  statistics.  They  had  laid 
down  so  many  miles  of  railways,  used  so  many 
engines  of  British  construction.  They  had 
taught  the  natives  to  use  and  to  value  sewing- 
machines  and  European  costumes.  So  many 
hundred  of  English  younger  sons  had  gone  to 
make  their  fortunes  and,  incidentally,  to  enlighten 
the  Esquimaux — so  many  hundreds  of  French, 
of  Germans,  Greeks,  Russians.  All  these  lived 
and  moved  in  harmony,  employed,  happy,  free  la- 
bourers, protected  by  the  most  rigid  laws.  Man- 
eating,  fetich-worship,  slavery  had  been  abolished, 
stamped  out.  The  great  international  society  for 
the  preservation  of  Polar  freedom  watched  over 
all,  suggested  new  laws,  modified  the  old.  The 
country  was  unhealthy,  but  not  to  men  of  clean 
lives — hominibus  honcB  voluntatis.  It  asked  for 
no  others. 

[148] 


CHAPTER  TEN 

"  I  have  had  to  endure  much  misrepresen- 
tation. I  have  been  called  names,"  the  Due 
said. 

The  figure  of  the  lady  danced  before  my  eyes, 
lithe,  supple — a  statue  endued  with  the  motion  of 
a  serpent.  I  seemed  to  see  her  sculptured  white 
hand  pointing  to  the  closed  door. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  I  said,  "  but  one  knows  the  people 
that  call  you  names." 

"  Well,  then,"  he  answered,  "  it  is  your  task  to 
make  them  know  the  truth.  Your  nation  has  so 
much  power.     If  it  will  only  realise." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  I  said. 

I  saw  the  apotheosis  of  the  Press — a  Press  that 
makes  a  State  Founder  suppliant  to  a  man  like 
myself.  For  he  had  the  tone  of  a  deprecating 
petitioner.  I  stood  between  himself  and  a  people, 
the  arbiter  of  the  peoples,  of  the  kings  of  the 
future,  I  was  nothing,  nobody;  yet  here  I  stood 
in  communion  with  one  of  those  who  change  the 
face  of  continents.  He  had  need  of  me,  of  the 
power  that  was  behind  me.  It  was  strange  to  be 
alone  in  that  room  with  that  man — to  be  there 
just  as  I  might  be  in  my  own  little  room  alone 
with  any  other  man. 

[149] 


THE    INHERITORS 

I  was  not  unduly  elated,  you  must  understand. 
It  was  nothing  to  me.  I  was  just  a  person  elected 
by  some  suffrage  of  accidents.  Even  in  my  own 
eyes  I  was  merely  a  symbol — the  sign  visible  of 
incomprehensible  power. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  I  said. 

"  Ah,  yes,  do,''  he  said,  "  Mr.  Churchill  told  me 
how  nicely  you  can  do  such  things." 

I  said  that  it  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Churchill. 
The  tension  of  the  conversation  was  relaxed.  The 
Due  asked  if  I  had  yet  seen  my  aunt. 

"  I  had  forgotten  her,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  you  must  see  her,"  he  said;  "  she  is  a 
most  remarkable  lady.  She  is  one  of  my  relaxa- 
tions. All  Paris  talks  about  her,  I  can  assure 
you." 

"  I  had  no  idea,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  cultivate  her,"  he  said;  "you  will  be 
amused." 

"  I  will,"  I  said,  as  I  took  my  leave. 

I  went  straight  home  to  my  little  room  above 
the  roofs.  I  began  at  once  to  write  my  article, 
working  at  high  pressure,  almost  hysterically.  I 
remember  that  place  and  that  time  so  well.  In 
moments  of  emotion  one  gazes  fixedly  at  things, 
[150] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

hardly  conscious  of  them.  Afterward  one  re- 
members. 

I  can  still  see  the  narrow  room,  the  bare,  brown, 
discoloured  walls,  the  incongruous  marble  clock 
on  the  mantel-piece,  the  single  rickety  chair  that 
swayed  beneath  me.  I  could  almost  draw  the 
tortuous  pattern  of  the  faded  cloth  that  hid  the 
round  table  at  which  I  sat.  The  ink  was  thick, 
pale,  and  sticky;  the  pen  spluttered.  I  wrote 
furiously,  anxious  to  be  done  with  it.  Once  I 
went  and  leaned  over  the  balcony,  trying  to  hit 
on  a  word  that  would  not  come.  Miles  down 
below,  little  people  crawled  over  the  cobbled 
street,  little  carts  rattled,  little  workmen  let  down 
casks  into  a  cellar.  It  was  all  very  grey,  small, 
and  clear. 

Through  the  open  window  of  an  opposite  gar- 
ret I  could  see  a  sculptor  working  at  a  colossal 
clay  model.  In  his  white  blouse  he  seemed  big, 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Level  with  my  eyes  there  were  flat  lead  roofs 
and  chimneys.  On  one  of  these  was  scrawled, 
in  big,  irregular,  blue-painted  letters:  "A  bas 
Coigiiet." 

Great  clouds  began  to  loom  into  view  over 
[151] 


THE   INHERITORS 

the  house-tops,  rounded,  toppling  masses  of 
grey,  lit  up  with  sullen  orange  against  the  pale 
Hmpid  blue  of  the  sky.  I  stood  and  looked 
at  all  these  objects.  I  had  come  out  here  to 
think — thoughts  had  deserted  me.  I  could  only 
look. 

The  clouds  moved  imperceptibly,  fatefully 
onward,  a  streak  of  lightning  tore  them  apart. 
They  whirled  like  tortured  smoke  and  grew  sud- 
denly black.  Large  spots  of  rain  with  jagged 
edges  began  to  fall  on  the  lead  floor  of  my 
balcony. 

I  turned  into  the  twilight  of  my  room  and  be- 
gan to  write.  I  can  still  feel  the  tearing  of  my 
pen-point  on  the  coarse  paper.  It  was  a  hin- 
drance to  thought,  but  my  flow  of  words  ignored 
it,  gained  impetus  from  it,  as  a  stream  does  at 
the  breaking  of  a  dam. 

I  was  writing  a  pzean  to  a  great  coloniser. 
That  sort  of  thing  was  in  the  air  then.  I  was 
drawn  into  it,  carried  away  by  my  subject.  Per- 
haps I  let  it  do  so  because  it  was  so  little  familiar 
to  my  lines  of  thought.  It  was  fresh  ground  and 
I  revelled  in  it.  I  committed  myself  to  that  kind 
of  emotional,  lyrical  outburst  that  one  dislikes  so 
[152] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

much  on  re-reading.  I  was  half  conscious  of  the 
fact,  but  I  ignored  it. 

The  thunderstorm  was  over,  and  there  was  a 
moist  sparkling  freshness  in  the  air  when  I  hur- 
ried with  my  copy  to  the  Hour  office  in  the 
Avenue  de  I'Opera.  I  wished  to  be  rid  of  it,  to 
render  impossible  all  chance  of  revision  on  the 
morrow. 

I  wanted,  too,  to  feel  elated;  I  expected  it.  It 
was  a  right.  At  the  office  I  found  the  foreign 
correspondent,  a  little  cosmopolitan  Jew  whose 
eyebrows  began  their  growth  on  the  bridge  of 
his  nose.  He  was  effusive  and  familiar,  as  the 
rest  of  his  kind. 

"  Hullo,  Granger,"  was  his  greeting.  I  was 
used  to  regarding  myself  as  fallen  from  a  high 
estate,  but  I  was  not  yet  so  humble  in  spirit  as  to 
relish  being  called  Granger  by  a  stranger  of  his 
stamp.     I  tried  to  freeze  him  politely. 

"  Read  your  stuff  in  \ht  Hour,''  was  his  re- 
joinder; ''jolly  good  I  call  it.  Been  doing  old 
Red-Beard?  Let's  have  a  look.  Yes,  yes. 
That's  the  way — that's  the  real  thing — I  call  it. 
Must  have  bored  you  to  death  ...  old 
de  Mersch  I  mean.  I  ought  to  have  had  the  job^ 
[153] 


tw- 


THE   INHERITORS 

you  know.  My  business,  interviewing  people  in 
Paris.  But  /  don't  mind.  Much  rather  you  did 
it  than  I.     You  do  it  a  heap  better." 

I  murmured  thanks.  There  was  a  pathos 
about  the  sleek  httle  man — a  pathos  that  is  al- 
ways present  in  the  type.  He  seemed  to  be  try- 
ing to  assume  a  deprecating  equality. 

"Where  are  you  going  to-night?"  he  asked, 
with  sudden  effusiveness.  I  was  taken  aback. 
One  is  not  used  to  being  asked  these  questions 
after  five  minutes'  acquaintance.  I  said  that  I 
had  no  plans. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  brightening  up,  "  come 
and  have  dinner  with  me  at  Breguet's,  and  look 
in  at  the  Opera  afterward.  We'll  have  a  real 
nice  chat." 

I  was  too  tired  to  frame  an  adequate  excuse. 
Besides,  the  little  man  was  as  eager  as  a  child  for 
a  new  toy.  We  went  to  Breguet's  and  had  a 
really  excellent  dinner. 

"Always  come  here,"  he  said;  "one  meets  a 
lot  of  swells.  It  runs  away  with  a  deal  of  money 
— but  I  don't  care  to  do  things  on  the  cheap,  not 
for  the  Hour,  you  know.  You  can  always  be 
certain  when  I  say  that  I  have  a  thing  from  a 
senator  that  he  is  a  senator,  and  not  an  old 
1 154] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

woman  in  a  paper  kiosqtie.  Most  of  them  do 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

"  I  ahvays  wondered,"  I  said,  mildly. 

"  That's  de  Sourdam  I  nodded  to  as  we  came 
in,  and  that  old  chap  there  is  Pluyvis — the  Af- 
faire man,  you  know.  I  must  have  a  word  with 
him  in  a  minute,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

He  began  to  ask  affectionately  after  the  health 
of  the  excellent  Fox,  asked  if  I  saw  him  often, 
and  so  on  and  so  on.  I  divined  with  amusement 
that  was  pleasurable  that  the  little  man  had  his 
own  little  axe  to  grind,  and  thought  I  might  take 
a  turn  at  the  grindstone  if  he  managed  me  well. 
So  he  nodded  to  de  Sourdam  of  the  Austrian  em- 
bassy and  had  his  word  with  Pluyvis,  and  rejoiced 
to  have  impressed  me — I  could  see  him  bubble 
with  happiness  and  purr.  He  proposed  that  we 
should  stroll  as  far  as  the  paper  kiosque  that  he 
patronised  habitually — it  was  kept  by  a  fellow- 
Israelite — a  snuffy  little  old  woman. 

I  understood  that  in  the  joy  of  his  heart  he 
was  for  expanding,  for  wasting  a  few  minutes  on 
a  stroll. 

"  Haven't  stretched  my  legs  for  months,"  he 
explained. 

.We  strolled  there  through  the  summer  twi- 
[155] 


THE   INHERITORS 

light.  It  was  so  pleasant  to  saunter  through  the 
young  summer  night.  There  were  so  many  lit- 
tle things  to  catch  the  eyes,  so  many  of  the  little 
things  down  near  the  earth;  expressions  on  faces 
of  the  passers,  the  set  of  a  collar,  the  quaint 
foreign  tightness  of  waist  of  a  good  bourgeoise 
who  walked  arm  in  arm  with  her  perspiring 
spouse.  The  gilding  on  the  statue  of  Joan  of 
Arc  had  a  pleasant  littleness  of  Philistinism,  the 
arcades  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  broke  up  the  grey 
light  pleasantly  too.  I  remembered  a  little  shop 
— a  little  Greek  affair  with  a  windowful  of  pinch- 
beck— where  I  had  been  given  a  false  five-franc 
piece  years  and  years  ago.  The  same  villainous 
old  Levantine  stood  in  the  doorway,  perhaps  the 
fez  that  he  wore  was  the  same  fez.  The  little 
old  woman  that  we  strolled  to  was  bent  nearly 
double.  Her  nose  touched  her  wares  as  often  as 
not,  her  mittened  hands  sought  quiveringly  the 
papers  that  the  correspondent  asked  for.  I  liked 
him  the  better  for  his  solicitude  for  this  forlorn 
piece  of  flotsam  of  his  own  race. 

"  Always  come  here,"  he  exclaimed;  "  one  gets 
into  habits.     Very  honest  woman,  too,  you  can 
be  certain  of  getting  your  change.     If  you're  a 
[156] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

stranger  you  can't  be  sure  that  they  won't  giye 
you  Italian  silver,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  I  answered.  I  knew,  too,  that 
he  wished  me  to  purchase  something.  I  followed 
the  course  of  her  groping  hands,  caught  sight  of 
the  Revue  Rouge,  and  remembered  that  it  con- 
tained something  about  Greenland.  I  helped 
myself  to  it,  paid  for  it,  and  received  my  just 
change.  I  felt  that  I  had  satisfied  the  little  man, 
and  felt  satisfied  with  myself. 

"  I  want  to  see  Radet's  article  on  Greenland," 
I  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  explained,  once  more  exhibiting 
himself  in  the  capacity  of  the  man  who  knows, 
"  Radet  gives  it  to  them.  Rather  a  lark,  I  call 
it,  though  you  mustn't  let  old  de  Mersch  know 
you  read  him.  Radet  got  sick  of  Cochin,  and 
tried  Greenland.  He's  getting  touched  by  the 
Whites  you  know.  They  say  that  the  priests 
don't  like  the  way  the  Systeme's  playing  into  the 
hands  of  the  Protestants  and  the  English  Govern- 
ment. So  they  set  Radet  on  to  write  it  down. 
He's  going  in  for  mysticism  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing — just  like  all  these  French  jokers  are  doing. 
Got  deuced  thick  with  that  lot  in  the  F.  St.  Ger- 
[157] 


THE    INHERITORS 

main — some  relation  of  yours,  ain't  they?  Rather 
a  lark  that  lot,  quite  the  thing  just  now,  everyone 
goes  there;  old  de  Mersch  too.  Have  frightful 
rows  sometimes,  such  a  mixed  lot,  you  see."  The 
good  little  man  rattled  amiably  along  beside  me. 

"  Seems  quite  funny  to  be  buying  books,"  he 
said.  "  I  haven't  read  a  thing  I've  bought,  not 
for  years." 

We  reached  the  Opera  in  time  for  the  end  of 
the  first  act — it  was  Aida,  I  think.  My  little 
friend  had  a  free  pass  all  over  the  house.  I  had 
not  been  in  it  for  years.  In  the  old  days  I  had 
always  seen  the  stage  from  a  great  height,  cran- 
ing over  people's  heads  in  a  sultry  twilight;  now 
I  saw  it  on  a  level,  seated  at  my  ease.  I  had  only 
the  power  of  the  Press  to  thank  for  the  change. 

"  Come  here  as  often  as  I  can,"  my  companion 
said;  "can't  do  without  music  when  it's  to  be 
had."  Indeed  he  had  the  love  of  his  race  for  it. 
It  seemed  to  soften  him,  to  change  his  nature,  as 
he  sat  silent  by  my  side. 

But  the  closing  notes  of  each  scene  found  him 
out  in  the  cool  of  the  corridors,  talking,  and  be- 
ing talked  to  by  anyone  that  would  vouchsafe 
him  a  word. 

[158] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

"  Pick  up  a  lot  here,"  he  explained. 

After  the  finale  we  leaned  over  one  of  the  side 
balconies  to  watch  the  crowd  streaming  down 
the  marble  staircases.  It  is  a  scene  that  I  never 
tire  of.  There  is  something  so  fantastically 
tawdry  in  the  coloured  marble  of  the  architecture. 
It  is  for  all  the  world  like  a  triumph  of  ornamental 
soap  work;  one  expects  to  smell  the  odours. 
And  the  torrent  of  humanity  pouring  liquidly 
aslant  through  the  mirror-like  light,  and  the 
spaciousness  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  fantastic,  some- 
how; ironical,  too. 

I  was  watching  the  devious  passage  of  a  rather 
drunken,  gigantic,  florid  Englishman,  wonder- 
ing, I  think,  how  he  would  reach  his  bed. 

"  That  must  be  a  relation  of  yours,"  the  cor- 
respondent said,  pointing.  My  glance  followed 
the  line  indicated  by  his  pale  finger.  I  made  out 
the  glorious  beard  of  the  Due  de  Mersch,  on  his 
arm  was  an  old  lady  to  whom  he  seemed  to  pay 
deferential  attention.  His  head  was  bent  on  one 
side;  he  was  smiling  frankly.  A  little  behind 
them,  on  the  stairway,  there  was  a  space.  Per- 
haps I  was  mistaken;  perhaps  there  was  no  space 
— I  don't  know.  I  was  only  conscious  of  a  figure, 
[159] 


THE   INHERITORS 

an  indescribably  clear-cut  woman's  figure,  glid- 
ing down  the  way.  It  had  a  coldness,  a  self-pos- 
session, a  motion  of  its  own.  In  that  clear,  trans- 
parent, shimmering  light,  every  little  fold  of  the 
dress,  every  little  shadow  of  the  white  arms,  the 
white  shoulders,  came  up  to  me.  The  face  turned 
up  to  meet  mine.  I  remember  so  well  the  light 
shining  down  on  the  face,  not  a  shadow  anywhere, 
not  a  shadow  beneath  the  eyebrows,  the  nostrils, 
the  waves  of  hair.  It  was  a  vision  of  light, 
theatening,  sinister. 

She  smiled,  her  lips  parted. 

"  You  come  to  me  to-morrow,"  she  said.  Did 
I  hear  the  words,  did  her  lips  merely  form 
them?  She  was  far,  far  down  below  me;  the  air 
was  alive  with  the  rustling  of  feet,  of  garments, 
of  laughter,  full  of  sounds  that  made  them- 
selves heard,  full  of  sounds  that  would  not  be 
caught. 

"  You  come  to  me     .     .     .     to-morrow." 

The  old  lady  on  the  Due  de  Mersch's  arm  was 
obviously  my  aunt.  I  did  not  see  why  I  should 
not  go  to  them  to-morrow.  It  struck  me  sud- 
denly and  rather  pleasantly  that  this  was,  after  all, 
my  family.  This  old  lady  actually  was  a  connec- 
[i6o] 


CHAPTER  TEN 
tion  more  close  than  anyone  else  in  the  world. 
As  for  the  girl,  to  all  intents  and,  in  everyone 
else's  eyes,  she  was  my  sister.  I  cannot  say  I  dis- 
liked having  her  for  my  sister,  either.  I  stood 
looking  down  upon  them  and  felt  less  alone  than 
I  had  done  for  many  years. 

A  minute  scufBe  of  the  shortest  duration  was 
taking  place  beside  me.  There  were  a  couple  of 
men  at  my  elbow.  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what 
they  were — perhaps  marquises,  perhaps  railway 
employees — one  never  can  tell  over  there.  One 
of  them  was  tall  and  blond,  with  a  heavy,  bow- 
shaped  red  moustache — Irish  in  type;  the  other 
of  no  particular  height,  excellently  groomed, 
dark,  and  exemplary.  I  knew  he  was  exemplary 
from  some  detail  of  costume  that  I  can't  remem- 
ber— his  gloves  or  a  strip  of  silk  down  the  sides 
of  his  trousers — something  of  the  sort.  The 
blond  was  saying  something  that  I  did  not  catch. 
I  heard  the  words  "  de  Mersch  "  and  "  Anglaise" 
and  saw  the  dark  man  turn  his  attention  to  the 
little  group  below.  Then  I  caught  my  own  name 
mispronounced  and  somewhat  of  a  stumbling- 
block  to  a  high-pitched  contemptuous  intonation. 
The  little  correspondent,  who  was  on  my  other 
[i6i] 


THE    INHERITORS 

arm,  started  visibly  and  moved  swiftly  behind 
my  back. 

"  Messieurs,"  he  said  in  an  urgent  whisper,  and 
drew  them  to  a  little  distance.  I  saw  him  say 
something,  saw  them  pivot  to  look  at  me,  shrug 
their  shoulders  and  walk  away.  I  didn't  in  the 
least  grasp  the  significance  of  the  scene — not 
then. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  I  asked  my  returning 
friend;  "  were  they  talking  about  me?  "  He  an- 
swered nervously. 

"  Oh,  it  was  about  your  aunt's  Salon,  you 
know.  They  might  have  been  going  to  say 
something  awkward    .    .    .    one  never  knows." 

"They  really  do  talk  about  it  then?"  I  said. 
"I've  a  good  mind  to  attend  one  of  their  exhibi- 
tions." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  you  ought.  I 
really  think  you  ought." 

"  I'll  go  to-morrow,"  I  answered. 


[162] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

I  COULDN'T  get  to  sleep  that  night,  but  lay 
and  tossed,  Ht  my  candle  and  read,  and  so  on, 
forever  and  ever  —  for  an  eternity.  I  was 
confoundedly  excited;  there  were  a  hundred 
things  to  be  thought  about;  clamouring  to  be 
thought  about;  out-clamouring  the  re-current 
chimes  of  some  near  clock.  I  began  to  read  the 
article  by  Radet  in  the  Revue  Rouge — the  one  I 
had  bought  of  the  old  woman  in  the  kiosque.  It 
upset  me  a  good  deal — that  article.  It  gave  away 
the  whole  Greenland  show  so  completely  that  the 
ecstatic  bosh  I  had  just  despatched  to  the 
Hour  seemed  impossible.  I  suppose  the  good 
Radet  had  his  axe  to  grind — just  as  I  had  had 
to  grind  the  State  Founder's,  but  Radet's  axe 
didn't  show.  I  was  reading  about  an  inland  val- 
ley, a  broad,  shadowy,  grey  thing;  immensely 
broad,  immensely  shadowy,  winding  away  be- 
tween immense,  half-invisible  mountains  into  the 
silence  of  an  unknown  country.  A  little  band  of 
[163] 


THE   INHERITORS 

men,  microscopic  figures  in  that  immensity,  in 
those  mists,  crept  slowly  up  it.  A  man  among 
them  was  speaking;  I  seemed  to  hear  his  voice, 
low,  monotonous,  overpowered  by  the  wan  light 
and  the  silence  and  the  vastness. 

And  how  well  it  was  done — how  the  man  could 
write;  how  skilfully  he  made  his  points.  There 
was  no  slosh  about  it,  no  sentiment.  The  touch 
was  light,  in  places  even  gay.  He  saw  so  well 
the  romance  of  that  dun  band  that  had  cast  re- 
morse behind;  that  had  no  return,  no  future,  that 
spread  desolation  desolately.  This  was  merely  a 
review  article — a  thing  that  in  England  would 
have  been  unreadable;  the  narrative  of  a  nomad 
of  some  genius.  I  could  never  have  written  like 
that — I  should  have  spoilt  it  somehow.  It  set 
me  tingling  with  desire,  with  the  desire  that 
transcends  the  sexual;  the  desire  for  the  fine 
phrase,  for  the  right  word — for  all  the  other  in- 
tangibles. And  I  had  been  wasting  all  this  time; 
had  been  writing  my  inanities.  I  must  go  away; 
must  get  back,  right  back  to  the  old  road,  must 
work.  There  was  so  little  time.  It  was  un- 
pleasant, too,  to  have  been  mLxed  up  in  this  affair, 
to  have  been  trepanned  into  doing  my  best  to  help 
[164] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

it  on  its  foul  way.  God  knows  I  had  little  of  the 
humanitarian  in  me.  If  people  must  murder  in 
the  by-ways  of  an  immense  world,  they  must  do 
murder  and  pay  the  price.  But  that  I  should 
have  been  mixed  up  in  such  was  not  what  I  had 
wanted.  I  must  have  done  with  it  all;  with  all 
this  sort  of  thing,  must  get  back  to  my  old  self, 
must  get  back.  I  seemed  to  hear  the  slow  words 
of  the  Due  de  Mersch. 

"  We  have  increased  the  exports  by  so  much; 
the  imports  by  so  much.  We  have  protected  the 
natives,  have  kept  their  higher  interests  ever 
present  in  our  minds.  And  through  it  all  we 
have  never  forgotten  the  mission  entrusted  to  us 
by  Europe — to  remove  the  evil  of  darkness  from 
the  earth — to  root  out  barbarism  with  its  name- 
less horrors,  whose  existence  has  been  a  blot  on 
our  consciences.  Men  of  good-will  and  self- 
sacrifice  are  doing  it  now  —  are  laying  down 
their  priceless  lives  to  root  out  ...  to  root 
out     .     .     ." 

Of  course  they  zvere  rooting  them  out. 

It  didn't  very  much  matter  to  me.  One  sup- 
poses that  that  sort  of  native  exists  for  that  sort 
of  thing — to  be  rooted  out  by  men  of  good-will, 
[165] 


THE   INHERITORS 

with  careers  to  make.  The  point  was  that  that 
was  what  they  were  really  doing  out  there — root- 
ing out  the  barbarians  as  well  as  the  barbarism, 
and  proving  themselves  worthy  of  their  hire.  And 
I  had  been  writing  them  up  and  was  no  better 
than  the  farcical  governor  of  a  department  who 
would  write  on  the  morrow  to  protest  that  that 
was  what  they  did  not  do.  You  see  I  had  a  sort 
of  personal  pride  in  those  days;  and  preferred  to 
think  of  myself  as  a  decent  person.  I  knew  that 
people  would  say  the  same  sort  of  thing  about 
me  that  they  said  about  all  the  rest  of  them.  I 
couldn't  very  well  protest.  I  had  been  scratch- 
ing the  backs  of  all  sorts  of  creatures;  out  of 
friendship,  out  of  love — for  all  sorts  of  reasons. 
This  was  only  a  sort  of  last  straw — or  perhaps  it 
was  the  sight  of  her  that  had  been  the  last  straw. 
It  seemed  naively  futile  to  have  been  wasting  my 
time  over  Mrs.  Hartly  and  those  she  stood  for, 
when  there  was  something  so  different  in  the 
world — something  so  like  a  current  of  east  wind. 
That  vein  of  thought  kept  me  awake,  and  a 
worse  came  to  keep  it  company.  The  men  from 
the  next  room  came  home — students,  I  suppose. 
They  talked  gaily  enough,  their  remarks  inter- 
[i66] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

spersed  by  the  thuds  of  falling  boots  and  the  other 
incomprehensible  noises  of  the  night.  Through 
the  flimsy  partition  I  caught  half  sentences  in 
that  sort  of  French  intonation  that  is  so  impos- 
sible to  attain.  It  reminded  me  of  the  voices  of 
the  two  men  at  the  Opera.  I  began  to  wonder 
what  they  had  been  saying  —  what  they  could 
have  been  saying  that  concerned  me  and  affected 
the  little  correspondent  to  interfere.  Suddenly 
the  thing  dawned  upon  me  with  the  startling 
clearness  of  a  figure  in  a  complicated  pattern — a 
clearness  from  which  one  cannot  take  one's  eyes. 
It  threw  everything — the  whole  world — into 
more  unpleasant  relations  with  me  than  even  the 
Greenland  affair.  They  had  not  been  talking 
about  my  aunt  and  her  Salon,  but  about  my 
.  .  .  my  sister.  She  was  de  Mersch's  "An- 
glaise."  I  did  not  believe  it,  but  probably  all 
Paris — the  w'hole  world — said  she  was.  And  to 
the  whole  world  I  was  her  brother !  Those  two 
men  who  had  looked  at  me  over  their  shoulders 
had  shrugged  and  said,  *'  Oh,  he's  .  .  ."  And 
the  whole  world  wherever  I  went  would  whisper 
in  asides,  *'  Don't  you  know  Granger?  He's  the 
brother.  De  Mersch  employs  him." 
[167] 


THE    INHERITORS 

I  began  to  understand  everything;  the  woman 
in  de  Mersch's  room  with  her  "  Eschingan-Gran- 
geur-r-r";  the  deference  of  the  little  Jew — the 
man  who  knew.  He  knew  that  I — that  I,  who 
patronised  him,  was  a  person  to  stand  well  with 
because  of  my — my  sister's  hold  over  de  Mersch. 
I  wasn't,  of  course,  but  you  can't  understand  how 
the  whole  thing  maddened  me  all  the  same.  I 
hated  the  world — this  world  of  people  who  whis- 
pered and  were  whispered  to,  of  men  who  knew 
and  men  who  wanted  to  know — the  shadowy 
world  of  people  who  didn't  matter,  but  whose  eyes 
and  voices  were  all  round  one  and  did  somehow 
matter.  I  knew  well  enough  how  it  had  come 
about.  It  was  de  Mersch — the  State  Founder, 
with  his  shamed  face  and  his  pallid  hands.  She 
had  been  attracted  by  his-  air  of  greatness,  by  his 
elective  grand-dukedom,  by  his  protestations. 
Women  are  like  that.  She  had  been  attracted 
and  didn't  know  what  she  was  doing,  didn't  know 
what  the  world  was  over  here — how  people  talked. 
She  had  been  excited  by  the  whirl  and  flutter  of 
it,  and  perhaps  she  didn't  care.  The  thing  must 
come  to  an  end,  however.  She  had  said  that  I 
should  go  to  her  on  the  morrow.  Well,  I  would 
[i68] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

go,  and  I  would  put  a  stop  to  this.  I  had  sud- 
denly discovered  how  very  much  I  was  a  Granger 
of  Etchingham,  after  all  I  had  family  traditions 
and  graves  behind  me.  And  for  the  sake  of  all 
these  people  whose  one  achievement  had  been  the 
making  of  a  good  name  I  had  to  intervene  now. 
After  all — "  Bon  sang  ne  " — does  not  get  itself 
talked  about  in  that  way. 

The  early  afternoon  of  the  morrow  found  me 
in  a  great  room — a  faded,  sombre  salon  of  the 
house  my  aunt  had  taken  in  the  Faubourg  Saint 
Germain.  Numbers  of  strong-featured  people 
were  talking  in  groups  among  the  tables  and 
chairs  of  a  time  before  the  Revolution.  I  rather 
forget  how  I  had  got  there,  and  what  had  gone 
before.  I  must  have  arisen  late  and  passed  the 
intervening  hours  in  a  state  of  trepidation.  I  was 
going  to  see  her,  and  I  was  like  a  cub  in  love,  with 
a  man's  place  to  fill.  It  was  a  preposterous  state 
of  things  that  set  the  solid  world  in  a  whirl. 
Once  there,  my  eyes  suddenly  took  in  things. 

I  had  a  sense  of  her  standing  by  my  side.  She 
had  just  introduced  me  to  my  aunt — a  heavy- 
featured,  tired-eyed  village  tyrant.  She  was  so 
obviously  worn  out,  so  obviously  **  not  what  she 
[169] 


THE    INHERITORS 

had  been,"  that  her  face  would  have  been  pitiful 
but  for  its  immovable  expression  of  class  pride. 
The  Grangers  of  Etchingham,  you  see,  were  so 
absolutely  at  the  top  of  their  own  particular  kind 
of  tree  that  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  meet 
anyone  who  was  not  an  inferior.  A  man  might 
be  a  cabinet  minister,  might  even  be  a  prince, 
but  he  couldn't  be  a  Granger  of  Etchingham, 
couldn't  have  such  an  assortment  of  graves,  each 
containing  a  Granger,  behind  his  back.  The  ex- 
pression didn't  even  lift  for  me  who  had.  It 
couldn't,  it  was  fixed  there.  One  wondered 
what  she  was  doing  in  this  galere.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  she  should  interest  herself  in  the 
restoration  of  the  Bourbons — they  were  all  very 
well,  but  they  weren't  even  English,  let  alone  a 
county  family.  I  figured  it  out  that  she  must 
have  set  her  own  village  so  much  in  order  that 
there  remained  nothing  but  the  setting  in  order 
of  the  rest  of  the  world.  Her  bored  eyes  wan- 
dered sleepily  over  the  assemblage.  They  seemed 
to  have  no  preferences  for  any  of  them.  They 
rested  on  the  vacuously  Bonaparte  prince,  on  the 
moribund  German  Jesuit  to  whom  he  was  listen- 
ing, on  the  darkly  supple  young  Spanish  priest, 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

on  the  rosy-gilled  English  Passionist,  on  Radet, 
the  writer  of  that  article  in  the  Revue  Rouge, 
■who  was  talking  to  a  compatriot  in  one  of  the 
tall  windows.  She  seemed  to  accept  the  satur- 
nine-looking men,  the  political  women,  who  all 
spoke  a  language  not  their  own,  with  an  accent 
and  a  fluency,  and  a  dangerous  far-away  smile 
and  a  display  of  questionable  teeth  all  their  own. 
She  seemed  to  class  the  political  with  the  pious, 
the  obvious  adventurer  with  the  seeming  fanatic. 
It  was  amazing  to  me  to  see  her  there,  standing 
with  her  county  family  self-possession  in  the 
midst  of  so  much  that  was  questionable.  She 
offered  me  no  explanation;  I  had  to  find  one  for 
myself. 

We  stood  and  talked  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
It  did  not  seem  a  place  in  which  one  could  sit. 

"  Why  have  you  never  been  to  see  me?  "  she 
asked  languidly,  "  I  might  never  have  known 
of  your  existence  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  sis- 
ter." My  sister  was  standing  at  my  side,  you 
must  remember.  I  don't  suppose  that  I  started, 
but  I  made  my  aunt  no  answer. 

"  Indeed,"  she  went  on,  "  I  should  never  have 
known  that  you  had  a  sister.  Your  father  was 
[171] 


THE   INHERITORS 

so  very  peculiar.  From  the  day  he  married,  my 
husband  never  heard  a  word  from  him." 

"  They  were  so  very  different,"  I  said,  list- 
lessly. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  answered,  "  brothers  so  often 
are."  She  sighed,  apropos  of  nothing.  She  con- 
tinued to  utter  disjointed  sentences  from  which 
I  gathered  a  skeleton  histor>'  of  my  sol  distant 
sister's  introduction  of  herself  and  of  her  preten- 
sions. She  had,  it  seemed,  casually  introduced 
herself  at  some  garden-party  or  function  of  the 
sort,  had  represented  herself  as  a  sister  of  my  own 
to  whom  a  maternal  uncle  had  left  a  fabulous  fort- 
une. She  herself  had  suggested  her  being  shelt- 
ered under  my  aunt's  roof  as  a  singularly  wel- 
come "  paying  guest."  She  herself,  too,  had  sug- 
gested the  visit  to  Paris  and  had  hired  the  house 
from  a  degenerate  Due  de  Luynes  who  preferred 
the  delights  of  an  appatianent  in  the  less  lugu- 
brious Avenue  Marceau. 

"  We  have  tastes  so  much  in  common,"  my 
aunt  explained,  as  she  moved  away  to  welcome 
a  new  arrival.  I  was  left  alone  with  the  woman 
who  called  herself  my  sister. 

We  stood  a  little  apart.  Each  little  group  of 
[172] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

talkers  in  the  vast  room  seemed  to  stand  just  with- 
out earshot  of  the  next.  I  had  my  back  to  the 
door,  my  face  to  her. 

"  And  so  you  have  come,"  she  said,  maHciously 
it  seemed  to  me. 

It  was  impossible  to  speak  in  such  a  position; 
in  such  a  place;  impossible  to  hold  a  discussion 
on  family  afifairs  when  a  diminutive  Irishwoman 
with  too  mobile  eyebrows,  and  a  couple  of  gigan- 
tic, raw-boned,  lugubrious  Spaniards,  were  in  a 
position  to  hear  anything  that  one  uttered  above 
a  whisper.  One  might  want  to  raise  one's  voice. 
Besides,  she  was  so — so  terrible;  there  was  no 
knowing  what  she  might  not  say.  She  so  obvi- 
ously did  not  care  what  the  Irish  or  the  Spaniards 
or  the  Jesuits  heard  or  thought,  that  I  was  forced 
to  the  mortifying  conclusion  that  I  did. 

"  Oh,  I've  come,"  I  answered.  I  felt  as  out- 
rageously out  of  it  as  one  does  at  a  suburban  hop 
where  one  does  not  know  one  animal  of  the 
menagerie.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  what 
to  say,  or  what  to  do  with  my  hands.  I  was  per- 
vaded by  the  unpleasant  idea  that  all  those 
furtive  eyes  were  upon  me;  gauging  me  because 
I  was  the  brother  of  a  personality.  I  was  con- 
[173] 


THE   INHERITORS 

cerned  about  the  fit  of  my  coat  and  my  boots,  and 
all  the  while  I  was  in  a  furious  temper;  my  errand 
was  important. 

She  stood  looking  at  me,  a  sinuous,  brilliant 
thing,  with  a  light  in  the  eyes  half  challenging, 
half  openly  victorious. 

"  You  have  come,"  she  said,  "  and     ..." 

I  became  singularly  afraid  of  her;  and  wanted 
to  stop  her  mouth.  She  might  be  going  to  say 
anything.  She  overpowered  me  so  that  I  actu- 
ally dwindled — into  the  gawkiness  of  extreme 
youth.  I  became  a  goggle-eyed,  splay-footed 
boy  again  and  made  a  boy's  desperate  effort  after 
a  recovery  at  one  stroke  of  an  ideal  standard  of 
dignity. 

"  I  must  have  a  word  with  you,"  I  said,  remem- 
bering. She  made  a  little  gesture  with  her 
hands,  signifying  "  I  am  here."  "  But  in  pri- 
vate," I  added. 

"  Oh,  everything's  in  private  here,"  she  said. 
I  was  silent. 

"  I  must,"  I  added  after  a  time. 

"  I  can't  retire  with  you,"  she  said;  "  *  it  would 
look  odd,'  you'd  say,  wouldn't  you?  I  shrugged 
my  shoulders  in  intense  irritation.  I  didn't  want 
[174] 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

to  be  burlesqued.  A  flood  of  fresh  people  came 
into  the  room.  I  heard  a  throaty  "  ahem  "  be- 
hind me.  The  Due  de  Mersch  was  introducing 
himself  to  notice.  It  was  as  I  had  thought — 
the  man  was  an  habitue,  with  his  well-cut  clothes, 
his  air  of  protestation,  and  his  tremendous  golden 
poll.  He  was  the  only  sunlight  that  the  gloomy 
place  rejoiced  in.  He  bowed  low  over  my  op- 
pressor's hand,  smiled  upon  me,  and  began  to 
utter  platitudes  in  English. 

"  Oh,  you  may  speak  French,"  she  said  care- 
lessly. 

"  But  your  brother     .     .     ."  he  answered. 

"  I  understand  French  very  well,"  I  said.  I 
was  in  no  mood  to  spare  him  embarrassments; 
wanted  to  show  him  that  I  had  a  hold  over  him, 
and  knew  he  wasn't  the  proper  person  to  talk  to  a 
young  lady.     He  glared  at  me  haughtily. 

"  But  yesterday  .  .  ."  he  began  in  a  tone 
that  burlesqued  august  displeasure.  I  was  won- 
dering what  he  had  looked  like  on  the  other  side 
of  the  door — whilst  that  lady  had  been  explain- 
ing his  nature  to  me. 

"  Yesterday  I  wished  to  avoid  embarrass- 
ments," I  said;  "  I  was  to  represent  your  views 
[175] 


THE    INHERITORS 

about  Greenland.  I  might  have  misunderstood 
you  in  some  important  matter." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  he  said  conciliatorily.  *'  Yes- 
terday we  spoke  English  for  the  benefit  of  the 
British  public.  When  we  speak  French  we  are 
not  in  public,  I  hope."  He  had  a  semi-supplicat- 
ing manner. 

"  Everything's  rather  too  much  in  public 
here,"  I  answered.  My  part  as  I  imagined  it  was 
that  of  a  British  brother  defending  his  sister  from 
questionable  attentions — the  person  who  "  tries 
to  show  the  man  he  isn't  wanted."  But  de 
Mersch  didn't  see  the  matter  in  that  light  at  all. 
He  could  not,  of  course.  He  was  as  much  used 
to  being  purred  to  as  my  aunt  to  looking  down  on 
non-county  persons.  He  seemed  to  think  I  was 
making  an  incomprehensible  insular  joke,  and 
laughed  non-committally.  It  wouldn't  have  been 
possible  to  let  him  know  he  wasn't  wanted. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  brother," 
she  said  suddenly.  "  He  is  quite  harmless.  He 
is  even  going  to  give  up  writing  for  the  papers 
except  when  we  want  him." 

The  Due  turned  from  me  to  her,  smiled  and 
bowed.  His  smile  was  inane,  but  he  bowed  very 
[176] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

well;  he  had  been  groomed  into  that  sort  of  thing 
or  had  it  in  the  blood. 

"  We  work  together  still?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why  not?  "  she  answered. 

A  hubbub  of  angry  voices  raised  itself  behind 
my  back.  It  was  one  of  the  contretemps  that 
made  the  Salon  Grangeur  famous  throughout  the 
city. 

"  You  forced  yourself  upon  me.  Did  I  say 
anywhere  that  you  were  responsible?  If  it  re- 
sembles your  particular  hell  upon  earth,  what  is 
that  to  me?  You  do  worse  things;  you,  your- 
self, monsieur.  Haven't  I  seen  .  .  .  haven't 
I  seen  it?  " 

The  Due  de  Mersch  looked  swiftly  over  his 
shoulder  toward  the  window. 

"  They  seem  to  be  angry  there,"  he  said  ner- 
vously. "  Had  not  something  better  be  done, 
Miss  Granger?  " 

Miss  Granger  followed  the  direction  of  his 
eyes. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  we're  used  to  these  differ- 
ences of  opinion.  Besides,  it's  only  Monsieur 
Radet;  he's  forever  at  war  with  someone  or 
other." 


THE    INHERITORS 

"  He  ought  to  be  shown  the  door,"  the  Due 
grumbled. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  she  answered,  "  we  couldn't. 
My  aunt  would  be  desolated  by  such  a  necessity. 
He  is  very  influential  in  certain  quarters.  My 
aunt  wants  to  catch  him  for  the —  He's  going 
to  write  an  article." 

"  He  writes  too  many  articles,"  the  Due  said, 
with  heavy  displeasure. 

"  Oh,  he  has  written  one  too  many,"  she  an- 
swered, "  but  that  can  be  traversed     .     .     ." 

"  But  no  one  believes,"  the  Due  objected 
.  .  .  Radet's  voice  intermittently  broke  in 
upon  his  sotfo  voce,  coming  to  our  ears  in  gusts. 

*'  Haven't  I  seen  you  .  .  .  and  then 
.  .  .  and  you  offer  me  the  cross  ...  to 
bribe  me  to  silence     .     .     .     me     .     .     ." 

In  the  general  turning  of  faces  toward  the  win- 
dow in  which  stood  Radet  and  the  other,  mine 
turned  too,  Radet  was  a  cadaverous,  weather- 
worn, passion-worn  individual,  badger-grey,  and 
worked  up  into  a  grotesquely  attitudinised  fury 
of  injured  self-esteem.  The  other  was  a  dena- 
tionalised, shifty-eyed,  sallow,  grey-bearded  gov- 
ernor of  one  of  the  provinces  of  the  Systeme 
[178] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

Groenlandais;  had  a  closely  barbered  head,  a  bull 
neck,  and  a  great  belly.  He  cast  furtive  glances 
round  him,  uncertain  whether  to  escape  or  to 
wait  for  his  say.  He  looked  at  the  ring  that  en- 
circled the  window  at  a  little  distance,  and  his 
face,  which  had  betrayed  a  half-apparent  shame, 
hardened  at  sight  of  the  cynical  masks  of  the  cos- 
mopolitan conspirators.  They  were  amused  by 
the  scene.  The  Holsteiner  gained  confidence, 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  have  had  the  fever  very  badly  since  you 
came  back,"  he  said,  showing  a  level  row  of 
white  teeth.  "  You  did  not  talk  like  that  out 
there." 

"  No — pas  si  bete — you  would  have  hanged 
me,  perhaps,  as  you  did  that  poor  devil  of  a  Swiss. 
What  was  his  name?  Now  you  offer  me  the 
cross.     Because  I  had  the  fever,  heinf  " 

I  had  been  watching  the  Due's  face;  a  first 
red  flush  had  come  creeping  from  under  the  roots 
of  his  beard,  and  had  spread  over  the  low  fore- 
head and  the  sides  of  the  neck.  The  eyeglass 
fell  from  the  eye,  a  signal  for  the  colour  to  re- 
treat. The  full  lips  grew  pallid,  and  began  to 
mutter  unspoken  words.    His  eyes  wandered  ap- 


THE    INHERITORS 

pealingly  from  the  woman  beside  him  to  me.  / 
didn't  want  to  look  him  in  the  face.  The  man 
was  a  trafBcker  in  human  blood,  an  evil  liver,  and 
I  hated  him.  He  had  to  pay  his  price;  would 
have  to  pay — but  I  didn't  want  to  see  him  pay  it. 
There  was  a  limit. 

I  began  to  excuse  myself,  and  slid  out  betw'een 
the  groups  of  excellent  plotters.  As  I  was  go- 
ing, she  said  to  me : 

"  You  may  come  to  me  to-morrow  in  the 
morning." 


liSo] 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

1WAS  at  the  Hotel  de  Luynes — or  Granger 
— early  on  the  following  morning.  The 
mists  were  still  hanging  about  the  dismal 
upper  windows  of  the  inscrutable  Faubourg;  the 
toilet  of  the  city  was  being  completed;  the  Uttle 
hoses  on  wheels  were  clattering  about  the  quiet 
larger  streets.  I  had  not  much  courage  thus 
early  in  the  day.  I  had  started  impulsively;  step- 
ping with  the  impulse  of  immediate  action  from 
the  doorstep  of  the  dairy  where  I  had  break- 
fasted. But  I  made  detours;  it  was  too  early, 
and  my  pace  slackened  into  a  saunter  as  I  passed 
the  row  of  porters'  lodges  in  that  dead,  inscrut- 
able street.  I  wanted  to  fly;  had  that  impulse 
very  strongly;  but  I  burnt  my  boats  with  my 
inquiry  of  the  incredibly  ancient,  one-eyed  por- 
teress.  I  made  my  way  across  the  damp  court- 
yard, under  the  enormous  portico,  and  into  the 
chilly  stone  hall  that  no  amount  of  human  com- 
ing and  going  sufficed  to  bring  back  to  a  sem- 
[i8i] 


THE   INHERITORS 

blance  of  life.  Mademoiselle  was  expecting  me. 
One  went  up  a  great  flight  of  stone  steps  into 
one  of  the  immensely  high,  narrow,  impossibly 
rectangular  ante-rooms  that  one  sees  in  the 
frontispieces  of  old  plays.  The  furniture  looked 
no  more  than  knee-high  until  one  discovered  that 
one's  self  had  no  appreciable  stature.  The  sad 
light  slanted  in  ruled  lines  from  the  great  height 
of  the  windows;  an  army  of  motes  moved  slowly 
in  and  out  of  the  shadows.  I  went  after  awhile 
and  looked  disconsolately  out  into  the  court-yard. 
The  porteress  was  making  her  way  across  the 
gravelled  space,  her  arms,  her  hands,  the  pockets 
of  her  black  apron  full  of  letters  of  all  sizes.  I 
remembered  that  the  factcur  had  followed  me 
down  the  street.  A  noise  of  voices  came  con- 
fusedly to  my  ears  from  between  half-opened  fold- 
ing-doors; the  thing  reminded  me  of  my  waiting 
in  de  Mersch's  rooms.  It  did  not  last  so  long. 
The  voices  gathered  tone,  as  they  do  at  the  end 
of  a  colloquy,  succeeded  each  other  at  longer  in- 
tervals, and  at  last  came  to  a  sustained  halt.  The 
tall  doors  moved  ajar  and  she  entered,  followed 
by  a  man  whom  I  recognized  as  the  governor  of 
a  province  of  the  day  before.     In  that  hostile 

[I82[ 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

light  he  looked  old  and  weazened  and  worried;^ 
seemed  to  have  lost  much  of  his  rotundity.  As 
for  her,  she  shone  with  a  light  of  her  own. 

He  greeted  me  dejectedly,  and  did  not  bright- 
en when  she  let  him  know  that  we  had  a  mutual 
friend  in  Callan.  The  Governor,  it  seemed,  in 
his  capacity  of  Supervisor  of  the  Systeme,  was  to 
conduct  that  distinguished  person  through  the 
wilds  of  Greenland;  was  to  smooth  his  way  and 
to  point  out  to  him  excellences  of  administration. 

I  wished  him  a  good  journey;  he  sighed  and 
began  to  fumble  with  his  hat. 

''  Alors,  c'est  artendu,"  she  said;  giving  him 
leave  to  depart.  He  looked  at  her  in  an  odd  sort 
of  way,  took  her  hand  and  applied  it  to  his  Hps. 

"  Cest  ortcndu,"  he  said  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
drops  of  moisture  spattering  from  beneath  his 
white  moustache,  "  mais     .     .     ." 

He  ogled  again  with  infinitesimal  eyes  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  He  had  the  air  of  wish- 
ing to  wipe  the  perspiration  from  his  brows  and 
to  exclaim,  "  Quelle  femme! "  But  if  he  had 
any  such  wish  he  mastered  it  until  the  door  hid 
him  from  sight. 

"  Why  the  .  .  ."I  began  before  it  had  well 
[183] 


THE   INHERITORS 

dosed,  "  do  you  allow  that  thing  to  make  love 
to  you?  "  I  wanted  to  take  up  my  position  be- 
fore she  could  have  a  chance  to  make  me  ridicu- 
lous. I  wanted  to  make  a  long  speech — about 
duty  to  the  name  of  Granger.  But  the  next  word 
hung,  and,  before  it  came,  she  had  answered: 

"  He? — Oh,  I'm  making  use  of  him." 

"To  inherit  the  earth?"  I  asked  ironically, 
and  she  answered  gravely : 

"  To  inherit  the  earth." 

She  was  leaning  against  the  window,  playing 
with  the  strings  of  the  blinds,  and  silhouetted 
against  the  leaden  light.  She  seemed  to  be, 
physically,  a  little  tired;  and  the  lines  of  her  figure 
to  interlace  almost  tenderly — to  "  compose " 
well,  after  the  ideas  of  a  certain  school.  I  knew 
so  little  of  her — only  just  enough  to  be  in  love 
with  her — that  this  struck  me  as  the  herald  of  a 
new  phase,  not  so  much  in  her  attitude  to  me  as 
in  mine  to  her;  she  had  even  then  a  sort  of  grav- 
ity, the  gravity  of  a  person  on  whom  things  were 
beginning  to  weigh. 

"  But,"  I  said,  irresolutely.  I  could  not  speak 
to  her;  to  this  new  conception  of  her,  in  the  way 
I  had  planned;  in  the  way  one  would  talk  to  a 
[184  I 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

brilliant,  limpid — oh.  to  a  woman  of  sorts.  But 
I  had  to  take  something  of  my  old  line.  "  How 
would  flirting  with  that  man  help  you?  " 

"  It's  quite  simple,"  she  answered,  "  he's  to 
show  Callan  all  Greenland,  and  Callan  is  to 
write  .  .  .  Callan  has  immense  influence 
over  a  great  class,  and  he  will  have  some  of  the 
prestige  of — of  a  Commissioner." 

"  Oh,  I  know  about  Callan,"  I  said. 

"  And,"  she  went  on,  "  this  man  had  orders 
to  hide  things  from  Callan;  you  know  what  it  is 
they  have  to  hide.  But  he  won't  now;  that  is 
what  I  was  arranging.  It's  partly  by  bribery  and 
partly  because  he  has  a  belief  in  his  beaux  yeux — 
so  Callan  will'  be  upset  and  will  write  an  .  .  . 
exposure;  the  sort  of  thing  Callan  would  write  if 
he  were  well  upset.  And  he  will  be,  by  what  this 
man  will  let  him  see.  You  know  what  a  little 
man  like  Callan  will  feel  ...  he  will  be  made 
ill.  He  would  faint  at  the  sight  of  a  drop  of 
blood,  you  know,  and  he  will  see — oh,  the  very 
worst,  worse  than  what  Radet  saw.  And  he  will 
write  a  frightful  article,  and  it  will  be  a  thunder- 
clap for  de  Mersch  .  .  .  And  de  Mersch  will 
be  getting  very  shaky  by  then.  And  your  friend 
I185I 


THE   INHERITORS 

Churchill  will  try  to  carry  de  Mersch's  railway 
bill  through  in  the  face  of  the  scandal.  Church- 
ill's motives  will  be  excellent,  but  everyone  will 
say  .  .  .  You  know  what  people  say  .  .  . 
That  is  what  I  and  Gurnard  want.  We  want 
people  to  talk;  we  want  them  to  believe  .  .  ." 
I  don't  know  whether  there  really  was  a  hesi- 
tation in  her  voice,  or  whether  I  read  that  into 
it.  She  stood  there,  playing  with  the  knots  of 
the  window-cords  and  speaking  in  a  low  mono- 
tone. The  whole  thing,  the  sad  twilight  of  the 
place,  her  tone  of  voice,  seemed  tinged  with  un- 
availing regret.  I  had  almost  forgotten  the  Di- 
mensionist  story,  and  I  had  never  believed  in  it. 
But  now,  for  the  first  time  I  began  to  have  my 
doubts.  I  was  certain  that  she  had  been  plotting 
something  with  one  of  the  Due  de  Mersch's  lieu- 
tenants. The  man's  manner  vouched  for  that; 
he  had  not  been  able  to  look  me  in  the  face.  But, 
more  than  anything,  his  voice  and  manner  made 
me  feel  that  we  had  passed  out  of  a  realm  of  farci- 
cal allegor}\  I  knew  enough  to  see  that  she  might 
be  speaking  the  truth.  And,  if  she  were,  her 
calm  avowal  of  such  treachery  proved  that  she 
was  what  she  had  said  the  Dimensionists  were; 
[.86  J 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

cold,  with  no  scruples,  clear-sighted  and  admira- 
bly courageous,  and  indubitably  enemies  of  so- 
ciety. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  I  said.  "  But  de 
Mersch  then?  " 

_  She  made  a  little  gesture;  one  of  those  move- 
ments that  I  best  remember  of  her;  the  smallest, 
the  least  noticeable.  It  reduced  de  Mersch  to 
nothing;  he  no  longer  even  counted. 

"  Oh,  as  for  him,"  she  said,  "  he  is  only  a 
detail."  I  had  still  the  idea  that  she  spoke  with 
a  pitying  intonation — as  if  she  were  speaking  to 
a  dog  in  pain.  "  He  doesn't  really  count;  not 
really.  He  will  crumble  up  and  disappear,  very 
soon.     You  won't  even  remember  him." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  you  go  about  with  him,  as  if 
you  .  .  .  You  are  getting  yourself  talked 
about  .  .  .  Everyone  thinks — "  .  .  .  The 
accusation  that  I  had  come  to  make  seemed  im- 
possible, now  I  was  facing  her.  "  I  believe,"  I 
added,  with  the  suddenness  of  inspiration.  "  I'm 
certain  even,  that  he  thinks  that  you    .    .    ." 

"  Well,  they  think  that  sort  of  thing.  But  It 
is  only  part  of  the  game.  Oh,  I  assure  you  it  is 
no  more  than  that." 

[187] 


THE   INHERITORS 

I  was  silent.  I  felt  that,  for  one  reason  or  an- 
other, she  wished  me  to  believe. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  want  you  to  believe.  It 
will  save  you  a  good  deal  of  pain." 

"  If  you  wanted  to  save  me  pain,"  I  maintained, 
"  you  would  have  done  with  de  Mersch  .  .  . 
for  good."  I  had  an  idea  that  the  solution  was 
beyond  me.  It  was  as  if  the  controlling  powers 
were  flitting,  invisible,  just  above  my  head,  just 
beyond  my  grasp.  There  was  obviously  some- 
thing vibrating;  some  cord,  somewhere,  stretched 
very  taut  and  quivering.  But  I  could  think  of 
no  better  solution  than :  "  You  must  have  done 
with  him."  It  seemed  obvious,  too,  that  that 
was  impossible,  was  outside  the  range  of  things 
that  could  be  done — but  I  had  to  do  my  best. 
"  It's  a — it's  vile,"  I  added,  "  vile." 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  she  said,  "  for  you 
.  .  .  And  I'm  even  sorry.  But  it  has  to  be 
gone  on  with.  De  Mersch  has  to  go  under  in 
just  this  way.     It  can't  be  any  other." 

"  Why  not?  "  I  asked,  because  she  had  paused. 
I  hadn't  any  desire  for  enlightenment. 

"  It  isn't  even  only  Churchill,"  she  said,  "  not 
even  only  that  de  Mersch  will  bring  down 
r  188I 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

Churchill  with  him.  It  is  that  he  must  bring 
down  everything  that  Churchill  stands  for.  You 
know  what  that  is — the  sort  of  probity,  all  the 
old  order  of  things.  And  the  more  vile  the  means 
used  to  destroy  de  Mersch  the  more  vile  the 
whole  afifair  will  seem.  People — the  sort  of 
people — have  an  idea  that  a  decent  man  cannot 
be  touched  by  tortuous  intrigues.  And  the 
whole  thing  will  be — oh,  malodorous.  You  un- 
derstand." 

"  I  don't,"  I  answered,  "  I  don't  understand  at 
all." 

"  Ah,  yes,  3'ou  do,"  she  said,  "  you  understand 
.  .  ."  She  paused  for  a  long  while,  and  I  was 
silent.  I  understood  vaguely  what  she  meant; 
that  if  Churchill  fell  amid  the  clouds  of  dust  of 
such  a  collapse,  there  would  be  an  end  of  belief 
in  probity  ...  or  nearly  an  end.  But  I 
could  not  see  what  it  all  led  up  to;  where  it  left  us. 

"  You  see,"  she  began  again,  "  I  want  to  make 
it  as  little  painful  to  you  as  I  can;  as  little  pain- 
ful as  explanations  can  make  it.  I  can't  feel  as 
you  feel,  but  I  can  see,  rather  dimly,  what  it  is 
that  hurts  you.  And  so  ...  I  want  to;  I 
really  want  to." 

[189] 


THE    INHERITORS 

:r-r  '.'■.- z"  I  rerjmed 


count?   They 
of  things.    I 
worth  bothe- 


cd,  ■■  it  must  be  like 

You  are  so  tied  down 

r.'t  YOU  see  that  de 

^^-:-!e — dcm't  really 

.1  in  the  scheme 

:hey  aren't 

accidents: 


7   i:         :       I  asked,  although  I  began  to 
see  dimly  what  she  meant. 

"That  lead  in  the  inevitable."  she  ansv^ered. 
"  Don't  you  see?  Don't  you  understand?  We 
are  the  inevitable  .  .  .  and  you  can't  keep 
us  back-  We  have  to  come  and  you,  you  will 
only  hurt  yourself,  by  resisting."  A  sense  that 
this  was  the  truth,  the  only  truth,  beset  me.  It 
was  for  the  moment  impossible  to  think  of  any- 
thing else — of  anything  else  in  the  world.  "  You 
must  accept  us  and  all  that  we  mean,  you 
must  stand  back;  sooner  or  later.  Look  even  aH 
round  you.  and  you  will  imderstand  better.  You 
are  :r.  :ht  r  -  use  of  a  type — a  type  that  became 
iir.pcssib'e.  Oh,  centuries  ago.  And  that  tvi>e 
[190] 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

too,  tried  very  hard  to  keep  back  the  inevitable; 
not  only  because  itself  went  under,  but  because 
everything  that  it  stood  for  vvent  under.  And 
it  had  to  suffer — heartache  .  .  .  that  sort  of 
suffering.    Isn't  it  so?  " 

I  did  not  answer;  the  illustration  was  too 
abominably  just.  It  was  just  that.  There  were 
even  now  all  these  people — these  Legitimists — 
sneering  ineffectually;  shutting  themselves  away 
from  the  light  in  their  mournful  houses  and  suf- 
fering horribly  because  everything  that  they 
stood  for  had  gone  under. 

"  But  even  if  I  believe  you,"  I  said,  "  the  thing 
is  too  horrible,  and  your  tools  are  too  mean;  that 
man  who  has  just  gone  out  and — and  Callan — 
are  they  the  weapons  of  the  inevitable?  After 
all,  the  Revolution  ..."  I  was  striving  to 
get  back  to  tangible  ideas — ideas  that  one  could 
name  and  date  and  label  ..."  the  Revolu- 
tion was  noble  in  essence  and  made  for  good. 
But  all  this  of  yours  is  too  vile  and  too  petty. 
You  are  bribing,  or  something  worse,  that  man 
to  betray  his  master.  And  that  you  call  helping 
on  the  inevitable     .     .     ." 

"  They  used  to  say  just  that  of  the  Revolution. 
[191] 


THE   INHERITORS 
Tbzt  -w^sn'i  nic£  of  its  tools.     Doc":  t^g  see? 
Tbej  irere  the  peofie  that  wcs:!  cudK"    .    .    . 
Thej  cooldii't  see  tlie  good    .    .    ." 

"  And  I— I  am  to  take  it  oo  trasL"  I 
teriy. 

'^  Yon  coulda't  see  uae  good,'  ii<e 
"k  tso't  pcwihlr,  and  time  is  no  vav  cf  ex- 
pfamn^     Oar  laagn^^    ^'-    :^  -d 

there's  no  Ind^^e — no  br.izt  l:  ;rf 


said,  tliere  «as  no  k 

"I  don't  bdkw 

dUiftraitto 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

frost.  It  was  like  a  pall,  like  descending  clouds 
of  smoke,  seemed  to  be  actually  present  in  the 
absurdly  lofty  room — this  belief  in  what  she  stood 
for,  in  what  she  said  she  stood  for. 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  I  proclaimed,  "  I 
won't  .  .  .  You  are  playing  the  fool  with 
me  .  .  .  trying  to  get  round  me  .  .  . 
to  make  me  let  you  go  on  with  these — with 
these — It  is  abominable.  Think  of  what  it 
means  for  me,  what  people  are  saying  of  me,  and 
I  am  a  decent  man — You  shall  not.  Do  you 
understand,  you  sJiall  not.  It  is  unbearable 
.  .  .  and  you  .  .  .  you  try  to  fool  me 
.     .     .     in  order  to  keep  me  quiet     .     .     ." 

*'  Oh,  no,"  she  said.     "  Oh,  no." 

She  had  an  accent  that  touched  grief,  as  nearly 
as  she  could  touch  it.  I  remember  it  now,  as  one 
remembers  these  things.  But  then  I  passed  it 
over.  I  was  too  much  moved  myself  to  notice 
it  more  than  subconsciously,  as  one  notices 
things  past  which  one  is  whirled.  And  I  was 
whirled  past  these  things,  in  an  ungovernable 
fury  at  the  remembrance  of  what  I  had  suffered, 
of  what  I  had  still  to  suffer.  I  was  speaking  with 
intense  rage,  jerking  out  words,  ideas,  as  flood- 
[193] 


THE   INHERITORS 

water  jerks  through  a  sluice  the  debris  of  once 
ordered  fields. 

"  You  are,"  I  said,  "  you  are — you — you — 
dragging  an  ancient  name  through  the  dust — 
you     .     .     ." 

I  forget  what  I  said.  But  I  remember,  "  drag- 
ging an  ancient  name."  It  struck  me,  at  the 
time,  by  its  forlornness,  as  part  of  an  appeal  to 
her.  It  was  so  pathetically  tiny  a  motive,  so  out 
of  tone,  that  it  stuck  in  my  mind.  I  only  re- 
member the  upshot  of  my  speech;  that,  unless 
she  swore— oh,  yes,  swore — to  have  done  with 
de  Mersch,  I  would  denounce  her  to  my  aunt  at 
that  very  moment  and  in  that  very  house. 

And  she  said  that  it  was  impossible. 


(194] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

I  HAD  a  sense  of  walking  very  fast — almost 
of  taking  flight — clown  a  long  dim  corridor, 
and  of  a  door  that  opened  into  an  immense 
room.  All  that  I  remember  of  it,  as  I  saw  it 
then,  was  a  number  of  pastel  portraits  of  weak, 
vacuous  individuals,  in  dulled,  gilt,  oval  frames. 
The  heads  stood  out  from  the  panelling  and 
stared  at  me  from  between  ringlets,  from  under 
powdered  hair,  simpering,  or  contemptuous  with 
the  expression  that  must  have  prevailed  in  the 
monde  of  the  time  before  the  Revolution.  At  a 
great  distance,  bent  over  account  -  books  and 
pink  cheques  on  the  flap  of  an  escritoire,  sat  my 
aunt,  very  small,  very  grey,  very  intent  on  her 
work. 

The  people  who  built  these  rooms  must  have 
had  some  property  of  the  presence  to  make  them 
bulk  large — if  they  ever  really  did  so — in  the  eyes 
of  dependents,  of  lackeys.  Perhaps  it  was  their 
sense  of  ownership  that  gave  them  the  necessary 
prestige.  My  aunt,  who  was  only  a  temporary 
[195] 


THE   INHERITORS 

occupant,  certainly  had  none  of  it.  Bent  in- 
tently over  her  accounts,  peering  through  her 
spectacles  at  columns  of  figures,  she  was  nothing 
but  a  little  old  woman  alone  in  an  immense  room. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  she  could  really  have 
any  family  pride,  any  pride  of  any  sort.  She 
looked  round  at  me  over  her  spectacles,  across 
her  shoulder. 

"Ah  .  .  .  Etchingham,"  she  said.  She 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  carry  herself  back  to  Eng- 
land, to  the  England  of  her  land-agent  and  her 
select  visiting  list.  Here  she  was  no  more  su- 
perior than  if  we  had  been  on  a  desert  island.  I 
wanted  to  enlighten  her  as  to  the  woman  she  was 
sheltering — wanted  to  very  badly;  but  a  neces- 
sity for  introducing  the  matter  seemed  to  arise 
as  she  gradually  stiffened  into  assertiveness. 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  I  said,  "  the  woman  .  .  ." 
The  alien  nature  of  the  theme  grew  suddenly  for- 
midable.    She  looked  at  me  arousedly. 

"  You  got  my  note  then,"  she  said.  "  But  I 
don't  think  a  woman  can  have  brought  it.  I 
have  given  such  strict  orders.  They  have  such 
strange  ideas  here,  though.  And  Madame — the 
portihe — is  an  old  retainer  of  M.  de  Luynes,  I 
[196] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

haven't  much  influence  over  her.  It  is  absurd, 
but  .  .  ."  It  seems  that  the  old  lady  in  the 
lodge  made  a  point  of  carrying  letters  that  went 
by  hand.  She  had  an  eye  for  gratuities — and 
the  police,  I  should  say,  were  concerned.  They 
make  a  good  deal  of  use  of  that  sort  of  person 
in  that  neighbourhood  of  infinitesimal  and  un- 
ceasing plotting. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  I  said,  "  but  the 
woman  who  calls  herself  my  sister     .     .     ." 

*'  My  dear  nephew,"  she  interrupted,  with 
tranquil  force,  as  if  she  were  taking  an  arranged 
line,  '■  I  cannot — I  absolutely  cannot  be  worried 
with  your  quarrels  with  your  sister.  As  I  said 
to  you  in  my  note  of  this  morning,  when  you  are 
in  this  town  you  must  consider  this  house  your 
home.  It  is  almost  insulting  of  you  to  go  to  an 
inn.  I  am  told  it  is  even  .  .  .  quite  an  unfit 
place  that  you  are  stopping  at — for  a  member  of 
our  family." 

I  maintained  for  a  few  seconds  a  silence  of 
astonishment. 

"  But,"  I  returned  to  the  charge,  "  the  matter 
is  one  of  importance.  You  must  understand 
that  she    .     .     ." 

[197] 


THE   INHERITORS 

My  aunt  stiffened  and  froze.  It  was  as  if 
I  had  committed  some  flagrant  sin  against  eti- 
quette. 

"  If  I  am  satisfied  as  to  her  behaviour,"  she 
said,  ''  I  think  that  you  might  be."  She  paused 
as  if  she  were  satisfied  that  she  had  set  me  hope- 
lessly in  the  wrong. 

"  I  don't  withdraw  my  invitation,"  she  said. 
"  You  must  understand  I  wish  you  to  come  here. 
But  your  quarrels  you  and  she  must  settle.  On 
those  terms    .    .    ." 

She  had  the  air  of  conferring  an  immense 
favour,  as  if  she  believed  that  I  had,  all  my  life 
through,  been  waiting  for  her  invitation  to  come 
within  the  pale.  As  for  me,  I  felt  a  certain  relief 
at  having  the  carrying  out  of  my  duty  made  im- 
possible for  me.  I  did  not  zvant  to  tell  my  aunt 
and  thus  to  break  things  off  definitely  and  for 
good.  Something  would  have  happened;  the 
air  might  have  cleared  as  it  clears  after  a  storm; 
I  should  have  learnt  where  I  stood.  But  I  was 
afraid  of  the  knowledge.  Light  in  these  dark 
places  might  reveal  an  abyss  at  my  feet.  I 
wanted  to  let  things  slide. 

My  aunt  had  returned  to  her  accounts,  the  ac- 
[198] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

counts  which  were  the  cog-wheels  that  kept  run- 
ning the  smooth  course  of  the  Etchingham  es- 
tates. She  seemed  to  wish  to  indicate  that  I 
counted  for  not  very  much  in  the  scheme  of 
things  as  she  saw  it. 

"  I  should  like  to  make  your  better  acquaint- 
ance," she  said,  with  her  head  still  averted,  "  there 
are  reasons  .  .  ."  It  came  suddenly  into  my 
head  that  she  had  an  idea  of  testamentary  dis- 
positions, that  she  felt  she  was  breaking  up,  that 
I  had  my  rights.  I  didn't  much  care  for  the 
thing,  but  the  idea  of  being  the  heir  of  Etching- 
ham  was — well,  was  an  idea.  It  would  make 
me  more  possible  to  my  pseudo-sister.  It  would 
be,  as  it  were,  a  starting-point,  would  make  me 
potentially  a  somebody  of  her  sort  of  ideal. 
Moreover,  I  should  be  under  the  same  roof,  near 
her,  with  her  sometimes.  One  asks  so  little 
more  than  that,  that  it  seemed  almost  half  the 
battle.  I  began  to  consider  phrases  of  thanks 
and  acceptance  and  then  uttered  them. 

I  never  quite  understood  the  bearings  of  that 

scene;  never  quite  whether  my  aunt  really  knew 

that  my  sister  was  not  my  sister.     She  was  a 

wonderfully  clever  woman  of  the  unscrupulous 

[199] 


THE   INHERITORS 

order,  with  a  sang-froid  and  self-possession  well 
calculated  to  let  her  cut  short  any  inconvenient 
revelations.  It  was  as  if  she  had  had  long  prac- 
tice in  the  art,  though  I  cannot  say  what  occasion 
she  can  have  had  for  its  practice — perhaps  for  the 
confounding  of  wavering  avowers  of  Dissent  at 
home. 

I  used  to  think  that  she  knew,  if  not  all,  at  least 
a  portion;  that  the  weight  that  undoubtedly  was 
upon  her  mind  was  nothing  else  but  that.  She 
broke  up,  was  breaking  up  from  day  to  day,  and 
I  can  think  of  no  other  reason.  She  had  the  air 
of  being  disintegrated,  like  a  mineral  under  an 
immense  weight — quartz  in  a  crushing  mill;  of 
being  dulled  and  numbed  as  if  she  were  under 
the  influence  of  narcotics. 

There  is  little  enough  wonder,  if  she  actually 
carried  that  imponderable  secret  about  with  her. 
I  used  to  look  at  her  sometimes,  and  wonder  if 
she,  too,  saw  the  oncoming  of  the  inevitable.  She 
was  limited  enough  in  her  ideas,  but  not  too 
stupid  to  take  that  in  if  it  presented  itself.  In- 
deed they  have  that  sort  of  idea  rather  grimly 
before  them  all  the  time — that  class. 

It  must  have  been  that  that  was  daily,  and  little 
[  200  ] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

by  little,  pressing  down  her  eyelids  and  deepen- 
ing the  quivering  lines  of  her  impenetrable  face. 
She  had  a  certain  solitary  grandeur,  the  pathos 
attaching  to  the  last  of  a  race,  of  a  type;  the 
air  of  waiting  for  the  deluge,  of  listening  for  an 
inevitable  sound  —  the  sound  of  oncoming 
waters. 

It  was  weird,  the  time  that  I  spent  in  that 
house — more  than  weird — deadening.  It  had 
an  extraordinary  effect  on  me — an  effect  that 
my  "  sister,"  perhaps,  had  carefully  calculated. 
She  made  pretensions  of  that  sort  later  on;  said 
that  she  had  been  breaking  me  in  to  perform 
my  allotted  task  in  the  bringing  on  of  the  inevi- 
table. 

I  have  nowhere  come  across  such  an  intense 
scHtude  as  there  was  there,  a  solitude  that  threw 
one  so  absolutely  upon  one's  self  and  into  one's 
self.  I  used  to  sit  working  in  one  of  those  tall, 
panelled  rooms,  very  high  up  in  the  air.  I  was 
writing  at  the  series  of  articles  for  the  Bi-Moiith- 
ly,  for  Polehampton.  I  was  to  get  the  atmos- 
phere of  Paris,  you  remember.  It  was  rather 
extraordinary,  that  process.  Up  there  I  seemed 
to  be  as  much  isolated  from  Paris  as  if  I  had  been 

[201] 


THE   INHERITORS 

in — well,  in  Hampton  Court.  It  was  almost  im- 
possible to  write;  I  had  things  to  think  about: 
preoccupations,  jealousies.  It  was  true  I  had  a 
living  to  make,  but  that  seemed  to  have  lost  its 
engrossingness  as  a  pursuit,  or  at  least  to  have 
suspended  it. 

The  panels  of  the  room  seemed  to  act  as  a 
sounding-board,  the  belly  of  an  immense  'cello. 
There  were  never  any  noises  in  the  house,  only 
whispers  coming  from  an  immense  distance — as 
when  one  drops  stones  down  an  unfathomable 
well  and  hears  ages  afterward  the  faint  sound  of 
disturbed  waters.  When  I  look  back  at  that 
time  I  figure  myself  as  forever  sitting  with  up- 
lifted pen,  waiting  for  a  word  that  would  not 
come,  and  that  I  did  not  much  care  about  get- 
ting. The  panels  of  the  room  would  creak 
sympathetically  to  the  opening  of  the  entraiice- 
door  of  the  house,  the  faintest  of  creaks;  people 
would  cross  the  immense  hall  to  the  room  in 
which  they  plotted;  would  cross  leisurely,  with 
laughter  and  rustling  of  garments  that  after  a 
long  time  reached  my  ears  in  whispers.  Then 
I  would  have  an  access  of  mad  jealousy.  I 
wanted  to  be  part  of  her  life,  but  I  could  not 
[202] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

stand  that  Salon  of  suspicious  conspirators. 
What  could  I  do  there?  Stand  and  look  at  them, 
conscious  that  they  all  dropped  their  voices  in- 
stinctively when  I  came  near  them? 

That  was  the  general  tone  of  that  space  of 
time,  but,  of  course,  it  was  not  always  that.  I 
used  to  emerge  now  and  then  to  breakfast  sym- 
pathetically with  my  aunt,  sometimes  to  sit 
through  a  meal  with  the  two  of  them.  I  danced 
attendance  on  them  singly;  paid  depressing  calls 
with  my  aunt;  calls  on  the  people  in  the  Fau- 
bourg; people  without  any  individuality  other 
than  a  kind  of  desiccation,  the  shrivelled  appear- 
ance and  point  of  view  of  a  dried  pippin.  In 
revenge,  they  had  names  that  startled  one,  names 
that  recalled  the  generals  and  flaneurs  of  an  im- 
possibly distant  time;  names  that  could  hardly 
have  had  any  existence  outside  the  memoirs  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  the  names  of  people  that 
could  hardly  have  been  fitted  to  do  anything 
more  vigorous  than  be  reflected  in  the  mirrors 
of  the  Salle  des  Glaces.  I  was  so  absolutely  de- 
pressed, so  absolutely  in  a  state  of  suspended 
animation,  that  I  seemed  to  conform  exactly  to 
my  aunt's  ideas  of  what  was  desirable  in  me  as 
[203] 


THE    INHERITORS 

an  attendant  on  her  at  these  functions.  I  used 
to  stand  behind  chairs  and  talk,  like  a  good 
young  man,  to  the  assorted  Peres  and  Abbes  who 
were  generally  present. 

And  then  I  used  to  go  home  and  get  the  at- 
mospheres of  these  people.  I  must  have  done  it 
abominably  badly,  for  the  notes  that  brought 
Polehampton's  cheques  were  accompanied  by 
the  bravos  of  that  gentleman  and  the  assurances 
that  Miss  Polehampton  liked  my  work — liked  it 
very  much. 

I  suppose  I  exhibited  myself  in  the  capacity  of 
the  man  who  knew — who  could  let  you  into  a 
thing  or  two.  After  all,  anyone  could  write 
about  students'  balls  and  the  lakes  in  the  Bois, 
but  it  took  someone  to  write  "  with  knowledge  " 
of  the  interiors  of  the  barred  houses  in  the  Rue 
de  rUniversite. 

Then,  too,  I  attended  the  more  showy  enter- 
tainments with  my  sister.  I  had  by  now  become 
so  used  to  hearing  her  styled  "  your  sister  "  that 
the  epithet  had  the  quality  of  a  name.  She  was 
"  mademoiselle  votre  soeur,"  as  she  might  have 
been  Mile.  Patience  or  Hope,  without  having 
anything  of  the  named  quality.  What  she  did  at 
[204] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

the  entertainments,  the  charitable  bazaars,  the 
dismal  dances,  the  impossibly  bad  concerts,  I 
have  no  idea.  She  must  have  had  some  purpose, 
for  she  did  nothing  without.  I  myself  descended 
into  fulfilling  the  functions  of  a  rudimentarily 
developed  chaperon  —  functions  similar  in  im^ 
portance  to  those  performed  by  the  eyes  of  a 
mole.  I  had  the  maddest  of  accesses  of  jealousy 
if  she  talked  to  a  man — and  such  men — or  danced 
with  one.  And  then  I  was  forever  screwing  my 
courage  up  and  feeling  it  die  away.  We  used  to 
drive  about  in  a  coupe,  a  thing  that  shut  us  in- 
exorably together,  but  which  quite  as  inexorably 
destroyed  all  opportunities  for  what  .one  calls 
making  love.  In  smooth  streets  its  motion  was 
too  glib,  on  the  pave  it  rattled  too  abominably. 
I  wanted  to  make  love  to  her — oh,  immensely, 
but  I  was  never  in  the  mood,  or  the  opportunity 
was  never  forthcoming.  I  used  to  have  the  wild- 
est fits  of  irritation;  not  of  madness  or  of  depres- 
sion, but  of  simple  wildness  at  the  continual  re- 
currence of  small  obstacles.  I  couldn't  read, 
couldn't  bring  myself  to  it.  I  used  to  sit  and 
look  dazedly  at  the  English  newspapers — at  any 
newspaper  but  the  Hour.  De  Mersch  had,  for 
[205] 


THE   INHERITORS 

the  moment,  disappeared.  There  were  troubles 
in  his  elective  grand  duchy — he  had,  indeed,  con- 
trived to  make  himself  unpopular  with  the  elec- 
tors, excessively  unpopular.  I  used  to  read 
piquant  articles  about  his  embroglio  in  an  Ameri- 
can paper  that  devoted  itself  to  matters  of  the 
sort.  All  sorts  of  international  difficulties  were 
to  arise  if  de  Mersch  were  ejected.  There  was 
some  other  obscure  prince  of  a  rival  house,  Prus- 
sian or  Russian,  who  had  desires  for  the  degree 
of  royalty  that  sat  so  heavily  on  de  Mersch.  In- 
deed, I  think  there  were  two  rival  princes,  each 
waiting  with  portmanteaux  packed  and  mani- 
festos in  their  breast  pockets,  ready  to  pass  de 
Mersch's  frontiers. 

The  grievances  of  his  subjects — so  the  Paris- 
American  Gazette  said  —  were  intimately  con- 
nected with  matters  of  finance,  and  de  Mersch's 
personal  finances  and  his  grand  ducal  were  in- 
extricably mixed  up  with  the  wild-cat  schemes 
with  which  he  was  seeking  to  make  a  fortune 
large  enough  to  enable  him  to  laugh  at  half 
a  dozen  elective  grand  duchies.  Indeed,  de 
Mersch's  ow-n  portmanteau  was  reported  to  be 
packed  against  the  day  when  British  support  of 
[206] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

his  Greenland  schemes  would  let  him  afford  to 
laugh  at  his  cantankerous  Diet. 

The  thing  interested  me  so  little  that  I  never 
quite  mastered  the  details  of  it.  I  wished  the 
man  no  good,  but  so  long  as  he  kept  out  of  my 
way  I  was  not  going  to  hate  him  actively.  Fi- 
nally the  affairs  of  Holstein-Launewitz  ceased  to 
occupy  the  papers — the  thing  was  arranged  and 
the  Russian  and  Prussian  princes  unpacked  their 
portmanteaux,  and,  I  suppose,  consigned  their 
manifestos  to  the  flames,  or  adapted  them  to  the 
needs  of  other  principalities.  De  Mersch's  affairs 
ceded  their  space  in  the  public  prints  to  the  topic 
of  the  dearness  of  money.  Somebody,  some- 
where, was  said  to  be  up  to  something.  I  used 
to  try  to  read  the  articles,  to  master  the  details, 
because  I  disliked  finding  a  whole  field  of 
thought  of  which  I  knew  absolutely  nothing.  I 
used  to  read  about  the  great  discount  houses 
and  other  things  that  conveyed  absolutely  noth- 
ing to  my  mind.  I  only  gathered  that  the  said 
great  houses  were  having  a  very  bad  time,  and 
that  everybody  else  was  having  a  very  much 
worse. 

One  day,  indeed,  the  matter  was  brought  home 
[207] 


THE  INHERITORS 
to  me  by  the  receipt  from  Polehampton  of  bills 
instead  of  my  usual  cheques.  I  had  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  in  cashing  the  things;  indeed,  people 
seemed  to  look  askance  at  them.  I  consulted  my 
aunt  on  the  subject,  at  breakfast.  It  was  the  sort 
of  thing  that  interested  the  woman  of  business  in 
her,  and  we  were  always  short  of  topics  of  con- 
versation. 

We  breakfasted  in  rather  a  small  room,  as 
rooms  went  there;  my  aunt  sitting  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  with  an  early  morning  air  of  being  en 
famille  that  she  wore  at  no  other  time  of  day.  It 
was  not  a  matter  of  garments,  for  she  was  not  the 
woman  to  wear  a  peignoir;  but  lay,  I  supposed, 
in  her  manner,  which  did  not  begin  to  assume 
frigidity  until  several  watches  of  the  day  had 
passed. 

I  handed  her  Polehampton's  bills  and  ex- 
plained that  I  was  at  a  loss  to  turn  them  to  ac- 
count; that  I  even  had  only  the  very  haziest  of 
ideas  as  to  their  meaning.  Holding  the  forlorn 
papers  in  her  hand,  she  began  to  lecture  me  on 
the  duty  of  acquiring  the  rudiments  of  what  she 
called  "  business  habits." 

"  Of  course  you  do  not  require  to  master  de- 
tails to  any  considerable  extent,"  she  said,  "  but 

[208] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

I  always  have  held  that  it  is  one  of  the  duties  of 
a    .    .    ." 

She  interrupted  herself  as  my  sister  came  into 
the  room;  looked  at  her,  and  then  held  out  the 
papers  in  her  hand.  The  things  quivered  a  little; 
the  hand  must  have  quivered  too. 

"  You  are  going  to  Halderschrodt's? "  she 
said,  interrogatively.  "  You  could  get  him  to  ne- 
gotiate these  for  Etchingham?  " 

Miss  Granger  looked  at  the  papers  negligently. 

"  I  am  going  this  afternoon,"  she  answered. 
"  Etchingham  can  come  .  .  ."  She  sudden- 
ly turned  to  me :  "  So  your  friend  is  getting 
shaky,"  she  said. 

"  It  means  that?"  I  asked.  "  But  I've  heard 
that  he  has  done  the  same  sort  of  thing  before." 

"  He  must  have  been  shaky  before,"  she  said, 
**  but  I  daresay  Halderschrodt     .     .     ." 

"  Oh,  it's  hardly  worth  while  bothering  that 
personage  about  such  a  sum,"  I  interrupted. 
Halderschrodt,  in  those  days,  was  a  name  that 
suggested  no  dealings  in  any  sum  less  than  a 
million. 

"  My  dear  Etchingham,"  my  aunt  interrupted 
in  a  shocked  tone,  "  it  is  quite  worth  his  while  to 
oblige  us    .     .     ." 

[209] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  I  didn't  know,"  I  said. 

That  afternoon  we  drove  to  Halderschrodt's 
private  office,  a  sumptuous — that  is  the  mot  juste 
— suite  of  rooms  on  the  first  floor  of  the  house 
next  to  the  Due  de  Mersch's  Sans  Souci.  I  sat 
on  a  pkish-bottomed  gilded  chair,  whilst  my 
pseudo-sister  transacted  her  business  in  an  ad- 
joining room  —  a  room  exactly  corresponding 
with  that  within  which  de  Mersch  had  lurked 
whilst  the  lady  was  warning  me  against  him. 
A  clerk  came  after  awhile,  carried  me  off  into 
an  enclosure,  where  my  bill  was  discounted  by 
another,  and  then  reconducted  me  to  my  plush 
chair.  I  did  not  occupy  it,  as  it  happened.  A 
meagre,  very  tall  Alsatian  was  holding  the  door 
open  for  the  exit  of  my  sister.  He  said  nothing 
at  all,  but  stood  slightly  inclined  as  she  passed 
him.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  red,  long  face, 
very  tired  eyes,  and  hair  of  almost  startling 
whiteness — the  white  hair  of  a  comparatively 
young  man,  without  any  lustre  of  any  sort — a 
dead  white,  like  that  of  snow.  I  remember  that 
white  hair  with  a  feeling  of  horror,  whilst  I  have 
almost  forgotten  the  features  of  the  great  Baron 
de  Halderschrodt. 

I  had  still  some  of  the  feeling  of  having  been 

[210] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

in  contact  with  a  personality  of  the  most  colossal 
significance  as  we  went  down  the  red  carpet  of 
the  broad  white  marble  stairs.  With  one  foot  on 
the  lowest  step,  the  figure  of  a  perfectly  clothed, 
perfectly  groomed  man  was  standing  looking  up- 
ward at  our  descent.  I  had  thought  so  little  of 
him  that  the  sight  of  the  Due  de  Mersch's  face 
hardly  suggested  any  train  of  emotions.  It  lit 
up  with  an  expression  of  pleasure. 

"  You,"  he  said. 

She  stood  looking  down  upon  him  from  the 
altitude  of  two  steps,  looking  with  intolerable 
passivity. 

"  So  you  use  the  common  stairs,"  she  said, 
"  one  had  the  idea  that  you  communicated  with 
these  people  through  a  private  door."  He 
laughed  uneasily,  looking  askance  at  me. 

"  Oh,  I     .     .     ."  he  said. 

She  moved  a  little  to  one  side  to  pass  him  in 
her  descent. 

"  So  things  have  arranged  themselves  —  la 
has"  she  said,  referring,  I  supposed,  to  the  elec- 
tive grand  duchy. 

"  Oh,  it  was  hke  a  miracle,"  he  answered,  "  and 
I  owed  a  great  deal — a  great  deal — to  your, 
hints    ..." 

[211] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  You  must  tell  me  all  about  it  to-night,"  sHe 
said. 

De  Mersch's  face  had  an  extraordinar>'  quality 
that  I  seemed  to  notice  in  all  the  faces  around 
me — a  quality  of  the  flesh  that  seemed  to  lose  all 
luminosity,  of  the  eyes  that  seemed  forever  to 
have  a  tendency  to  seek  the  ground,  to  avoid  the 
sight  of  the  world.  When  he  brightened  to  an- 
swer her  it  was  as  if  with  effort.  It  seemed  as  if  a 
weight  were  on  the  mind  of  the  whole  world — a 
preoccupation  that  I  shared  without  understand- 
ing.. She  herself,  a  certain  absent-mindedness 
apart,  seemed  the  only  one  that  was  entirely  un- 
affected. 

As  we  sat  side  by  side  in  the  little  carriage, 
she  said  suddenly : 

"  They  are  coming  to  the  end  of  their  tether, 
you  see."  I  shrank  away  from  her  a  little — but 
I  did  not  see  and  did  not  want  to  see.  I  said  so. 
It  even  seemed  to  me  that  de  Mersch  having  got 
over  the  troubles  la  has,  was  taking  a  new  lease 
of  life. 

"  I  did  think,"  I  said,  "  a  little  time  ago 
that    .     .     ." 

The  wheels  of  the  coupe  suddenly  began  to  rat- 

[212] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

tie  abominably  over  the  cobbles  of  a  narrow 
street.  It  was  impossible  to  talk,  and  I  was 
thrown  back  upon  myself.  I  found  that  I  was 
in  a  temper — in  an  abominable  temper.  The 
sudden  sight  of  that  man,  her  method  of  greeting 
him,  the  intimacy  that  the  scene  revealed  .  .  . 
the  whole  thing  had  upset  me.  Of  late,  for  want 
of  any  alarms,  in  spite  of  groundlessness  I  had 
had  the  impression  that  I  was  the  integral  part 
of  her  life.  It  was  not  a  logical  idea,  but  strictly 
a  habit  of  mind  that  had  grown  up  in  the  desola- 
tion of  my  solitude. 

We  passed  into  one  of  the  larger  boulevards, 
and  the  thing  ran  silently. 

"  That  de  Mersch  was  crumbUng  up,"  she  sud- 
denly completed  my  unfinished  sentence;  "oh, 
that  was  only  a  grumble — premonitory.  But  it 
won't  take  long  now.  I  have  been  putting  on 
the  screw.  Halderschrodt  will  ...  I  sup- 
pose he  will  commit  suicide,  in  a  day  or  two. 
And  then  the — the  fun  will  begin." 

I  didn't  answer.  The  thing  made  no  impres- 
sion— no  mental  impression  at  all. 


[213] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

THAT  afternoon  we  had  a  scene,  and  late 
that  night  another.  The  memory  of  the 
former  is  a  little  blotted  out.  Things  be- 
gan to  move  so  quickly  that,  try  as  I  will  to  ar- 
range their  sequence  in  my  mind,  I  cannot.  I 
cannot  even  very  distinctly  remember  what  she 
told  me  at  that  first  explanation.  I  must  have 
attacked  her  fiercely — on  the  score  of  de  Mersch, 
in  the  old  vein;  must  have  told  her  that  I  would 
not  in  the  interest  of  the  name  allow  her  to  see 
the  man  again.  She  told  me  things,  too,  rather 
abominable  things,  about  the  way  in  which  she 
had  got  Halderschrodt  into  her  power  and  was 
pressing  him  down.  Halderschrodt  was  de 
Mersch's  banker-in-chief;  his  fall  would  mean  de 
Mersch's,  and  so  on.  The  "  so  on  "  in  this  case 
meant  a  great  deal  more.  Halderschrodt,  ap- 
parently, was  the  "  somebody  who  was  up  to 
something  "  of  the  American  paper — that  is  to 
say  the  allied  firms  that  Halderschrodt  represent- 
[214] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

ed.  I  can't  remember  the  details.  They  were 
too  huge  and  too  unfamiliar,  and  I  was  too  agi- 
tated by  my  own  share  in  the  humanity  of  it. 
But,  in  sum,  it  seemed  that  the  fall  of  Halder- 
schrodt  would  mean  a  sort  of  incredibly  vast 
Black  Monday — a  frightful  thing  in  the  existing 
state  of  public  confidence,  but  one  which  did  not 
mean  much  to  me.  I  forget  how  she  said  she 
had  been  able  to  put  the  screw  on  him.  Halder- 
schrodt,  as  you  must  remember,  was  the  third 
of  his  colossal  name,  a  man  without  much  genius 
and  conscious  of  the  lack,  obsessed  with  the 
idea  of  operating  some  enormous  coup,  like  the 
founder  of  his  dynasty,  something  in  which  fore- 
sight in  international  occurrence  played  a  chief 
part.  That  idea  was  his  weakness,  the  defect  of 
his  mind,  and  she  had  played  on  that  weakness. 
I  forget,  I  say,  the  details,  if  I  ever  heard  them; 
they  concerned  themselves  with  a  dynastic  revo- 
lution somewhere,  a  revolution  that  was  to  cause 
a  slump  all  over  the  world,  and  that  had  been 
engineered  in  our  Salon.  And  she  had  burked 
the  revolution — betrayed  it,  I  suppose — and  the 
consequences  did  not  ensue,  and  Halderschrodt 
and  all  the  rest  of  them  were  left  high  and  dry. 
[215] 


THE   INHERITORS 

The  whole  thing  was  a  matter  of  under-cur- 
rents  that  never  came  to  the  surface,  a  matter  of 
shifting  sands  from  which  only  those  with  the 
clearest  heads  could  come  forth. 

"  And  we  .  .  .  we  have  clear  heads,"  she 
said.  It  was  impossible  to  listen  to  her  without 
shuddering.  For  me,  if  he  stood  for  anything, 
Halderschrodt  stood  for  stability;  there  was  the 
tremendous  name,  and  there  was  the  person  I  had 
just  seen,  the  person  on  whom  a  habit  of  mind 
approaching  almost  to  the  royal  had  conferred  a 
presence  that  had  some  of  the  divinity  that  hedges 
a  king.  It  seemed  frightful  merely  to  imagine 
his  ignominious  collapse;  as  frightful  as  if  she 
had  pointed  out  a  splendid-limbed  man  and  said: 
"  That  man  will  be  dead  in  five  minutes."  That, 
indeed,  was  what  she  said  of  Halderschrodt 
.  .  .  The  man  had  saluted  her,  going  to  his 
death;  the  austere  inclination  that  I  had  seen  had 
been  the  salutation  of  such  a  man. 

I  was  so  moved  by  one  thing  and  another  that 
I  hardly  noticed  that  Gurnard  had  come  into  the 
room.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  the  night  when 
he  had  dined  with  the  Due  de  Mersch  at  Church- 
ill's, but  he  seemed  so  part  of  the  emotion,  of  the 
[216] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

frame  of  mind,  that  he  slid  noiselessly  into  the 
scene  and  hardly  surprised  me.  I  was  called  out 
of  the  room — someone  desired  to  see  me,  and  I 
passed,  without  any  transition  of  feeling,  into 
the  presence  of  an  entire  stranger — a  man  who 
remains  a  voice  to  me.  He  began  to  talk  to  me 
about  the  state  of  my  aunt's  health.  He  said 
she  was  breaking  up;  that  he  begged  respectfully 
to  urge  that  I  would  use  my  influence  to  take 
her  back  to  London  to  consult  Sir  James — I, 
perhaps,  living  in  the  house  and  not  having 
known  my  aunt  for  very  long,  might  not  see;  but 
he  .  .  .  He  was  my  aunt's  solicitor.  He  was 
quite  right;  my  aunt  was  breaking  up,  she  had 
declined  visibly  in  the  few  hours  that  I  had  been 
away  from  her.  She  had  been  doing  business 
with  this  man,  had  altered  her  will,  had  seen  Mr. 
Gurnard;  and,  in  some  way  had  received  a  shock 
that  seemed  to  have  deprived  her  of  all  volition. 
She  sat  with  her  head  leaning  back,  her  eyes 
closed,  the  lines  of  her  face  all  seeming  to  run 
downward. 

"  It  is  obvious  to  me  that  arrangements  ought 
to  be  made  for  your  return  to  England,"  the 
lawyer  said,  "  whatever  engagements  Miss  Gran- 
[2171 


THE   INHERITORS 

ger  or  ^Ir.  Etchingham  Granger  or  even  Mr. 
Gurnard  may  have  made." 

I  wondered  vaguely  what  the  devil  Mr.  Gur- 
nard could  have  to  say  in  the  matter,  and  then 
Miss  Granger  herself  came  into  the  room. 

"  They  want  me,"  my  aunt  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  they  have  been  persuading  me  .  .  .  to  go 
back  ...  to  Etchingham,  I  think  you  said, 
Meredith." 

I  became  conscious  that  I  wanted  to  return  to 
England,  wanted  it  very  much,  wanted  to  be  out 
of  this;  to  get  somewhere  where  there  was  sta- 
bility and  things  that  one  could  understand. 
Everything  here  seemed  to  be  in  a  mist,  with  the 
ground  trembling  underfoot. 

"  Why  .  .  ."  Miss  Granger's  verdict  came, 
"  we  can  go  when  you  like.     To-morrow." 

Things  immediately  began  to  shape  themselves 
on  these  unexpected  lines,  a  sort  of  bustle  of  de- 
parture to  be  in  the  air.  I  was  employed  to  con- 
duct the  lawyer  as  far  as  the  porter's  lodge,  a 
longish  traverse.  He  beguiled  the  way  by  ex- 
cusing himself  for  hurrying  back  to  London. 

"  I  might  have  been  of  use;  in  these  hurried 
departures  there  are  generally  things.    But,  you 

[218] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

will  understand,  Mr. — Mr.  Etchingham;  at  a 
time  like  this  I  could  hardly  spare  the  hours  that 
it  cost  me  to  come  over.  You  would  be  aston- 
ished what  a  deal  of  extra  work  it  gives  and  how 
far-spreading  the  evil  is.  People  seem  to  have 
gone  mad.     Even  I  have  been  astonished." 

"  I  had  no  idea,"  I  said. 

"  Of  course  not,  of  course  not — no  one  had. 
But,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken — much — there 
will  have  to  be  an  enquiry,  and  people  will  be 
very  lucky  who  have  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it     .     .     ." 

I  gathered  that  things  were  in  a  bad  way,  over 
there  as  over  here;  that  there  were  scandals  and 
a  tremendous  outcry  for  purification  in  the  high- 
est places,  I  saw  the  man  get  into  his  fiacre  and 
took  my  way  back  across  the  court-yard  rather 
slowly,  pondering  over  the  part  I  was  to  fill  in 
the  emigration,  wondering  how  far  events  had 
conferred  on  me  a  partnership  in  the  family  af- 
fairs. 

I  found  that  my  tacitly  acknowledged  function 

was  that  of  supervising  nurse-tender,  the  sort  of 

thing  that  made  for  personal  tenderness  in  the 

aridity  of  profuse  hired  help.     I  was  expected  to 

[219] 


THE    INHERITORS 

arrange  a  rug  just  a  little  more  comfortably  than 
the  lady's  maid  who  would  travel  in  the  compart- 
ment— to  give  the  finishing  touches. 

It  was  astonishing  how  well  the  thing  was  en- 
gineered; the  removal,  I  mean.  It  gave  me  an 
even  better  idea  of  the  woman  my  aunt  had  been 
than  had  the  panic  of  her  solicitor.  The  thing 
went  as  smoothly  as  the  disappearance  of  a  cara- 
van of  gypsies,  camped  for  the  night  on  a  heath 
beside  gorse  bushes.  We  went  to  the  ball  that 
night  as  if  from  a  household  that  had  its  roots 
deep  in  the  solid  rock,  and  in  the  morning  we 
had  disappeared. 

The  ball  itself  was  a  finishing  touch — the  finish- 
ing touch  of  my  sister's  affairs  and  the  end  of  my 
patience.  I  spent  an  interminable  night,  one  of 
those  nights  that  never  end  and  that  remain 
quivering  and  raw  in  the  memor>'.  I  seemed  to 
be  in  a  blaze  of  light,  watching,  through  a  shift- 
ing screen  of  shimmering  dresses — her  and  the 
Due  de  Mersch.  I  don't  know  whether  the  thing 
was  really  noticeable,  but  it  seemed  that  every- 
one was — that  everyone  must  be — remarking  it. 
I  thought  I  caught  women  making  smile-punctu- 
ated remarks  behind  fans,  men  answering  in- 
[220] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

audibly  with  eyes  discreetly  on  the  ground.  It 
was  a  mixed  assembly,  somebody's  liquidation  of 
social  obligations,  and  there  was  a  sprinkling  of 
the  kind  of  people  who  do  make  remarks.  It  was 
not  the  noticeability  for  its  own  sake  that  I  hated, 
but  the  fact  that  their  relations  by  their  notice- 
ability  made  me  impossible,  whilst  the  notice 
itself  confirmed  my  own  fears.  I  hung,  glower- 
ing in  corners,  noticeable  enough  myself,  I  sup- 
pose. 

The  thing  reached  a  crisis  late  in  the  evening. 
There  was  a  kind  of  winter-garden  that  one 
strolled  in,  a  place  of  giant  palms  stretching  up 
into  a  darkness  of  intense  shadow.  I  was  prowl- 
ing about  in  the  shadows  of  great  metallic  leaves, 
cursing  under  my  breath,  in  a  fury  of  nervous  ir- 
ritation; quivering  like  a  horse  martyrised  by  a 
stupidly  merciless  driver.  I  happened  to  stand 
back  for  a  moment  in  the  narrowest  of  paths,  with 
the  touch  of  spiky  leaves  on  my  hand  and  on  my 
face.  In  front  of  me  was  the  glaring  perspective 
of  one  of  the  longer  alleys,  and,  stepping  into  it,  a 
great  band  of  blue  ribbon  cutting  across  his  chest, 
came  de  Alersch  with  her  upon  his  ann.  De 
Mersch  himself  hardly  counted.     He  had  a  way 

[221] 


THE   INHERITORS 

of  glowing,  but  he  paled  ineffectual  fires  beside 
her  msenadic  glow.  There  was  something  over- 
powering in  the  sight  of  her,  in  the  fire  of  her 
eyes,  in  the  glow  of  her  coils  of  hair,  in  the  poise 
of  her  head.  She  wore  some  kind  of  early  nine- 
teenth-century dress,  sweeping  low  from  the 
waist  with  a  tenderness  of  fold  that  affected  one 
with  delicate  pathos,  that  had  a  virgin  quality 
of  almost  poignant  intensity.  And  beneath  it  she 
stepped  with  the  buoyancy — the  long  steps — of 
a  triumphing  Diana. 

It  was  more  than  terrible  for  me  to  stand  there 
longing  with  a  black,  baffled  longing,  with  some 
of  the  base  quality  of  an  eavesdropper  and  all 
the  baseness  of  the  unsuccessful. 

Then  Gurnard  loomed  in  the  distance,  moving 
insensibly  down  the  long,  glaring  corridor,  a 
sinister  figure,  suggesting  in  the  silence  of  his 
oncoming  the  motionless  flight  of  a  vulture. 
Well  within  my  field  of  sight  he  overtook  them 
and,  with  a  lack  of  preliminary  greeting  that  sug- 
gested supreme  intimacy,  walked  beside  them. 
I  stood  for  some  moments — for  some  minutes, 
and  then  hastened  after  them.  I  was  going  to 
do  something.    After  a  time  I  found  de  Mersch 

[  222  ] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

and  Gurnard  standing  facing  each  other  in  one 
of  the  doorways  of  the  place — Gurnard,  a  small, 
dark,  impassive  column;  de  Mersch,  bulky,  over- 
whelming-, florid,  standing  with  his  legs  well 
apart  and  speaking  vociferously  with  a  good  deal 
of  gesture.  I  approached  them  from  the  side, 
standing  rather  insistently  at  his  elbow. 

"  I  want,"  I  said,  "  I  would  be  extremely  glad 
if  you  would  give  me  a  minute,  monsieur."  I 
was  conscious  that  I  spoke  with  a  tremour  of 
the  voice,  a  sort  of  throaty  eagerness.  I  was 
unaware  of  what  course  I  was  to  pursue,  but  I 
was  confident  of  calmness,  of  self-control — I  was 
equal  to  that.  They  had  a  pause  of  surprised 
silence.  Gurnard  wheeled  and  fixed  me  criti- 
cally with  his  eye-glass.  I  took  de  Mersch  a 
little  apart,  into  a  solitude  of  palm  branches, 
and  began  to  speak  before  he  had  asked  me  my 
errand. 

"  You  must  understand  that  I  would  not  inter- 
fere without  a  good  deal  of  provocation,"  I  was 
saying,  when  he  cut  me  short,  speaking  in  a 
thick,  jovial  voice. 

"  Oh,    we    will    understand    that,    my    good 
Granger,  and  then     .     .     ." 
[223] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  It  is  about  my  sister,"  I  said — "  you — you  go 
too  far.  I  must  ask  you,  as  a  gentleman,  to  cease 
persecuting  her." 

He  answered  "  The  devil!  "  and  then:  "  If  I 
do  not ?  " 

It  was  evident  in  his  voice,  in  his  manner,  that 
the  man  was  a  little — well,  gris.  "  If  you  do  not," 
I  said,  "  I  shall  forbid  her  to  see  you  and  I 
shall     .     .     ." 

"  Oh,  oh !  "  he  interjected  with  the  intonation 
of  a  reveller  at  a  farce.  "  We  are  at  that — we  are 
the  excellent  brother."  He  paused,  and  then 
added :  "  Well,  go  to  the  devil,  you  and  your  for- 
bidding." He  spoke  with  the  greatest  good 
humour. 

"  I  am  in  earnest,"  I  said;  "  very  much  in  ear- 
nest. The  thing  has  gone  too  far,  and  even  for 
your  own  sake,  you  had  better    .    .    ." 

He  said  "  Ah,  ah !  "  in  the  tone  of  his  "  Oh, 
oh!" 

"  She  is  no  friend  to  you,"  I  struggled  on, 
*'  she  is  playing  with  you  for  her  own  purposes; 
you  will    .    .    ." 

He  swayed  a  Uttle  on  his  feet  and  said: 
**  Bravo  .  .  .  bravissimo.  If  we  can't  for- 
[224] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

bid  him,  we  will  frighten  him.  Go  on,  my  good 
fellow    .    .    ."  and  then,  "  Come,  go  on    .    .    ." 

I  looked  at  his  great  bulk  of  a  body.  It  came 
into  my  head  dimly  that  I  wanted  him  to  strike 
me,  to  give  me  an  excuse — anything  to  end  the 
scene  violently,  with  a  crash  and  exclamations 
of  fury. 

"  You  absolutely  refuse  to  pay  any  atten- 
tion? "  I  said. 

*'  Oh,  absolutely,"  he  answered. 

"  You  know  that  I  can  do  something,  that 
I  can  expose  you."  I  had  a  vague  idea  that  I 
could,  that  the  number  of  small  things  that 
I  knew  to  his  discredit  and  the  mass  of  my  hatred 
could  be  welded  into  a  damning  whole.  He 
laughed  a  high-pitched,  hysterical  laugh.  The 
dawn  was  beginning  to  spread  pallidly  above  us, 
gleaming  mournfully  through  the  glass  of  the 
palm-house.  People  began  to  pass,  muffled  up, 
on  their  way  out  of  the  place. 

"  You  may  go  .  .  ."  he  was  beginning. 
But  the  expression  of  his  face  altered.  Miss 
Granger,  muffled  up  like  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  was  coming  out  of  the  inner  door. 
"  We  have  been  having  a  charming  .  .  ." 
[225] 


THE   INHERITORS 

he  began  to  her.     She  touched  me  gently  on 
the  arm. 

"  Come,  Arthur,"  she  said,  and  then  to  him, 
"  You  have  heard  the  news?  " 

He  looked  at  her  rather  muzzily. 

"  Baron  Halderschrodt  has  committed  sui- 
cide," she  said.     "  Come,  Arthur." 

We  passed  on  slowly,  but  de  Mersch  fol- 
lowed. 

"  You — you  aren't  in  earnest^  "  he  said,  catch- 
ing at  her  arm  so  that  we  swung  round  and  faced 
him.  There  was  a  sort  of  mad  entreaty  in  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  hoped  that  by  unsaying  she  could 
remedy  an  irremediable  disaster,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  of  him  but  those  panic-stricken,  be- 
seeching eyes. 

'"'  Monsieur  de  Sabran  told  me,"  she  answered; 
"  he  had  just  come  from  making  the  constatation. 
Besides,  you  can  hear     .     .     ." 

Half-sentences  came  to  our  ears  from  groups 
that  passed  us.  A  very  old  man  with  a  nose  that 
almost  touched  his  thick  lips,  was  saying  to  an- 
other of  the  same  type : 

"  Shot  himself    .     .     .     through  the  left  tem- 
ple    ..     .     MonDieu!" 
[226] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

De  Mersch  walked  slowly  down  the  long  cor- 
ridor away  from  us.  There  was  an  extraordinary 
stiffness  in  his  gait,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  emu- 
late the  goose  step  of  his  days  in  the  Prussian 
Guard.  My  companion  looked  after  him  as 
though  she  wished  to  gauge  the  extent  of  his 
despair. 

"  You  would  say  '  Habet,'  wouldn't  you?  "  she 
asked  me. 

I  thought  we  had  seen  the  last  of  him,  but  as 
in  the  twilight  of  the  dawn  we  waited  for  the  lodge 
gates  to  open,  a  furious  clatter  of  hoofs  came 
down  the  long  street,  and  a  carriage  drew  level 
with  ours.  A  moment  after,  de  Mersch  was 
knocking  at  our  window. 

"  You  will  .  .  .  you  will  .  .  ."  he 
stuttered,  "  speak  ...  to  Mr.  Gurnard. 
That  is  our  only  chance  .  .  .  now."  His 
voice  came  in  mingled  with  the  cold  air  of  the 
morning.  I  shivered.  "  You  have  so  much 
power     .     .     .     with  him  and     .     .     ." 

"  Oh,  I    .    .    ."  she  answered. 

"  The  thing  must  go  through,"  he  said  again, 
"  or  else  .  .  ."  He  paused.  The  great  gates 
in  front  of  us  swung  noiselessly  open,  one  saw 
[227] 


THE   INHERITORS 

into  the  courtyard.  The  light  was  growing 
stronger.     She  did  not  answer. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  asseverated  insistently,  "  if  the 
British  Government  abandons  my  railway  all  our 
plans    .    .    ." 

"  Oh,  the  Government  won't  abandon  it,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  emphasis  on  the  verb.  He 
stepped  back  out  of  range  of  the  wheels,  and  we 
turned  in  and  left  him  standing  there. 


In  the  great  room  which  was  usually  given  up 
to  the  political  plotters  stood  a  table  covered  with 
eatables  and  lit  by  a  pair  of  candles  in  tall  silver 
sticks.  I  was  conscious  of  a  raging  hunger  and 
of  a  fierce  excitement  that  made  the  thought  of 
sleep  part  of  a  past  of  phantoms.  I  began  to  eat 
unconsciously,  pacing  up  and  down  the  while. 
She  was  standing  beside  the  table  in  the  glow  of 
the  transparent  light.  Pallid  blue  lines  showed 
in  the  long  windows.  It  was  verj-  cold  and  hid- 
eously late;  away  in  those  endless  small  hours 
when  the  pulse  drags,  when  the  clock-beat  drags, 
when  time  is  effaced. 

"  You  see?  "  she  said  suddenly. 
[228] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  I  answered — "  and  .  .  .  and 
now? " 

"Now  we  are  almost  done  with  each  other," 
she  answered. 

I  felt  a  sudden  mental  falling  away.  I  had  never 
looked  at  things  in  that  w^ay,  had  never  really 
looked  things  in  the  face.  I  had  grown  so  used 
to  the  idea  that  she  was  to  parcel  out  the  remain- 
der of  my  life,  had  grown  so  used  to  the  feeling 
that  I  was  the  integral  portion  of  her  life  .  .  . 
*'  But  I — "  I  said.  "  What  is  to  become  of  me?  " 

She  stood  looking  down  at  the  ground  .  .  . 
for  a  long  time.  At  last  she  said  in  a  low  mono- 
tone: 

'*  Oh,  you  must  try  to  forget." 

A  new  idea  struck  me — luminously,  over- 
whelming. I  grew  reckless.  "  You — you  are 
growing  considerate,"  I  taunted,  "  You  are  not 
so  sure,  not  so  cold.  I  notice  a  change  in  you. 
Upon  my  soul     .     .     ." 

Her  eyes  dilated  suddenly,  and  as  suddenly 
closed  again.  She  said  nothing.  I  grew  con- 
scious of  unbearable  pain,  the  pain  of  returning 
life.  She  was  going  away.  I  should  be  alone. 
The  future  began  to  exist  again,  looming  up  like 
[229] 


THE   INHERITORS 

a  vessel  through  thick  mist,  silent,  phantasmal, 
overwhelming — a  hideous  future  of  irremediable 
remorse,  of  solitude,  of  craving. 

"  You  are  going  back  to  work  with  Church- 
ill," she  said  suddenly. 

"  How  did  you  know?  "  I  asked  breathlessly. 
My  despair  of  a  sort  found  vent  in  violent  inter- 
jecting of  an  immaterial  query. 

"  You  leave  your  letters  about,"  she  said. 
"  and     ...     It  will  be  best  for  you." 

"  It  will  not,"  I  said  bitterly.  "  It  could  never 
be  the  same.  I  don't  want  to  see  Churchill.  I 
want     .     .     ." 

"  You  want?  "  she  asked,  in  a  low  monotone. 

"  You,"  I  answered. 

She  spoke  at  last,  very  slowly: 

"  Oh,  as  for  me,  I  am  going  to  marry  Gurnard.'- 

I  don't  know  just  what  I  said  then,  but  I  re- 
member that  I  found  myself  repeating  over  and 
over  again,  the  phrases  running  metrically  up 
and  dow^n  my  mind:  "  You  couldn't  marry  Gur- 
nard; you  don't  know  what  he  is.  You  couldn't 
marry  Gurnard;  you  don't  know  what  he  is."  I 
don't  suppose  that  I  knew  anything  to  the  dis- 
credit of  Gurnard — but  he  struck  me  in  that  way 
[230] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

at  that  moment;  struck  me  convincingly — more 
than  any  array  of  facts  could  have  done. 

"  Oh — as  for  what  he  is — "  she  said,  and 
paused.  "  /  know  .  .  ."  and  then  suddenly 
she  began  to  speak  very  fast. 

"  Don't  you  see? — caiit  you  see? — that  I  don't 
marry  Gurnard  for  what  he  is  in  that  sense,  but 
for  what  he  is  in  the  other.  It  isn't  a  marriage  in 
your  sense  at  all.  And  .  .  .  and  it  doesn't 
affect  you  .  .  .  don't  you  seef  We  have  to 
have  done  with  one  another,  because  .  .  . 
because    .     ,     ." 

I  had  an  inspiration. 

"  I  believe,"  I  said,  very  slowly,  "  I  believe  • 
.     .     you  do  care     .     .     ." 

She  said  nothing. 

"  You  care,"  I  repeated. 

She  spoke  then  with  an  energy  that  had  some- 
thing of  a  threat  in  it.  "  Do  you  think  I  would? 
Do  you  think  I  could?  ...  or  dare?  Don't 
you  understand?"  She  faltered  —  "but  then 
.  .  ."  she  added,  and  was  silent  for  a  long  min- 
ute. I  felt  the  throb  of  a  thousand  pulses  in  my 
head,  on  my  temples.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  care,"  she 
said  slowly,  "  but  that — that  makes  it  all  the 
[231] 


THE   INHERITORS 

worse.  Why,  yes,  I  care — yes,  yes.  It  hurts  me 
to  see  you.  I  might  ...  It  would  draw  me 
away.  I  have  my  allotted  course.  And  you — 
Don't  you  see,  you  would  influence  me;  you 
would  be — you  are — a  disease — for  me." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  I  could — I  would — do  any- 
thing." 

I  had  only  the  faintest  of  ideas  of  what  I  would 
do — for  her  sake. 

"  Ah,  no,"  she  said,  "  you  must  not  say  that. 
You  don't  understand  .  .  .  Even  that  would 
mean  misery  for  you — and  I — I  could  not  bear. 
Don't  you  see?  Even  now,  before  you  have 
done  your  allotted  part,  I  am  wanting — oh,  want- 
ing— to  let  you  go  .  .  .  But  I  must  not;  I 
must  not.  You  must  go  on  .  ,  ,  and  bear  it 
for  a  little  while  more — and  then    .    .    ." 

There  was  a  tension  somewhere,  a  string  some- 
where that  was  stretched  tight  and  vibrating.  I 
was  tremulous  with  an  excitement  that  overmas- 
tered my  powers  of  speech,  that  surpassed  my 
understanding. 

"  Don't  you  see  .  .  ."  she  asked  again, 
"you  are  the  past — the  passing.  We  could 
never  meet.  You  are  .  .  .  for  me  .  .  . 
[232] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

only  the  portrait  of  a  man — of  a  man  who  has 
been  dead — oh,  a  long  time;  and  I,  for  you,  only 
a  possibility  ...  a  conception  .  .  .  You 
work  to  bring  me  on — to  make  me  possible." 

"  But — "  I  said.  The  idea  was  so  difficult  to 
grasp.     "  I  will — there  must  be  a  way " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  there  is  no  way — you 
must  go  back;  must  try.  There  will  be  Church- 
ill and  what  he  stands  for — He  won't  die,  he 
won't  even  care  much  for  losing  this  game 
.  .  .  not  much  .  .  .  And  you  will  have 
to  forget  me.  There  is  no  other  way — no  bridge. 
We  can't  meet,  you  and  I    .    .    ." 

The  words  goaded  me  to  fury.  I  began  to 
pace  furiously  up  and  down.  I  wanted  to  tell 
her  that  I  would  throw  away  everything  for  her, 
would  crush  myself  out,  would  be  a  lifeless  tool, 
would  do  anything.  But  I  could  tear  no  words 
out  of  the  stone  that  seemed  to  surround  me. 

"  You  may  even  tell  him,  if  you  like,  what  I 
and  Gurnard  are  going  to  do.  It  will  make  no 
difference;  he  will  fall.  But  you  would  like  him 
to — to  make  a  good  fight  for  it,  wouldn't  you? 
That  is  all  I  can  do    .    .    .    for  your  sake." 

I  began  to  speak — as  if  I  had  not  spoken  for 
[233] 


THE   INHERITORS 

years.  The  house  seemed  to  be  coming  to  life; 
there  were  noises  of  opening  doors,  of  voices  out- 
side. 

"  I  believe  you  care  enough,"  I  said  "  to  give 
it  all  up  for  me.  I  believe  you  do,  and  I  want 
you."  I  continued  to  pace  up  and  down.  The 
noises  of  returning  day  grew  loud;  frightfully 
loud.  It  was  as  if  I  must  hasten,  must  get  said 
what  I  had  to  say,  as  if  I  must  raise  my  voice  to 
make  it  heard  amid  the  clamour  of  a  world  awak- 
ening to  life. 

"  I  believe  you  do  ...  I  believe  you  do 
.  .  ."  I  said  again  and  again,  "  and  I  want 
you."  My  voice  rose  higher  and  higher.  She 
stood  motionless,  an  inscrutable  white  figure, 
like  some  silent  Greek  statue,  a  harmony  of  fall- 
ing folds  of  heavy  drapery  perfectly  motionless. 

"  I  want  you,"  I  said — "  I  want  you,  I  want 
you,  I  want  you."     It  was  unbearable  to  myself. 

"  Oh,  be  quiet,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Be  quiet ! 
If  you  had  wanted  me  I  have  been  here.  It  is 
too  late.    All  these  days;   all  these " 

"  But     .     .     ."I  said. 

From  without  someone  opened  the  great  shut- 
ters of  the  windows,  and  the  light  from  the  out- 
side world  burst  in  upon  us. 
[234] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

WE  parted  in  London  next  day,  I  hardly 
know  where.  She  seemed  so  part  of 
my  being,  was  for  me  so  little  more 
than  an  intellectual  force,  so  little  of  a  physical 
personality,  that  I  cannot  remember  where  my 
eyes  lost  sight  of  her. 

I  had  desolately  made  the  crossing  from  coun- 
try to  country,  had  convoyed  my  aunt  to  her  big 
house  in  one  of  the  gloomy  squares  in  a  certain 
district,  and  then  we  had  parted.  Even  after- 
ward it  was  as  if  she  were  still  beside  me,  as  if  I 
had  only  to  look  round  to  find  her  eyes  upon  me. 
She  remained  the  propelling  force,  I  a  boat  thrust 
out  upon  a  mill-pond,  moving  more  and  more 
slowly.  I  had  been  for  so  long  in  the  shadow 
of  that  great  house,  shut  in  among  the  gloom, 
that  all  this  light,  this  blazing  world — it  was  a 
June  day  in  London — seemed  impossible,  and 
hateful.  Over  there,  there  had  been  nothing  but 
very  slow,  fading  minutes;  now  there  was  a  past, 
[235] 


THE   INHERITORS 

a  future.  It  was  as  if  I  stood  between  them  in 
a  cleft  of  unscalable  rocks. 

I  went  about  mechanically,  made  arrangements 
for  my  housing,  moved  in  and  out  of  rooms  in 
the  enormous  mausoleum  of  a  club  that  was  all 
the  home  I  had,  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  Suddenly  I 
remembered  that  I  had  been  thinking  of  some- 
thing; that  she  had  been  talking  of  Churchill. 
I  had  had  a  letter  from  him  on  the  morning  of 
the  day  before.  When  I  read  it,  Churchill  and 
his  "  Cromwell "  had  risen  in  my  mind  like  pre- 
posterous phantoms;  the  one  as  unreal  as  the 
other — as  alien.  I  seemed  to  have  passed  an  in- 
finity of  aeons  beyond  them.  The  one  and  the 
other  belonged  as  absolutely  to  the  past  as  a 
past  year  belongs.  The  thought  of  them  did  not 
bring  with  it  the  tremulously  unpleasant  sensa- 
tions that,  as  a  rule,  come  with  the  thoughts  of 
a  too  recent  temps  jadis,  but  rather  as  a  vein  of 
rose  across  a  gray  evening.  I  had  passed  his 
letter  over;  had  dropped  it  half-read  among  the 
litter  of  the  others.  Then  there  had  seemed  to 
be  a  haven  into  whose  mouth  I  was  drifting. 

Now  I  should  have  to  pick  the  letters  up  again, 
all  of  them;  set  to  work  desolately  to  pick  up  the 
[236] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

threads  of  the  past;  and  work  it  back  into  hfe  as 
one  does  half-drowned  things.  I  set  about  it  hst- 
lessly.  There  remained  of  that  time  an  errand 
for  my  aunt,  an  errand  that  would  take  me  to 
Etchingham;  something  connected  with  her  land 
steward.  I  think  the  old  lady  had  ideas  of  in- 
ducting me  into  a  position  that  it  had  grown 
tacitly  acknowledged  I  was  to  fill.  I  was  to  go 
down  there;  to  see  about  some  alterations  that 
were  in  progress;  and  to  make  arrangements 
for  my  aunt's  return.  I  was  so  tired,  so  dog 
tired,  and  the  day  still  had  so  many  weary  hours 
to  run,  that  I  recognised  instinctively  that  if  I 
were  to  come  through  it  sane  I  must  tire  myself 
more,  must  keep  on  going — until  I  sank.  I 
drifted  down  to  Etchingham  that  evening.  I 
sent  a  messenger  over  to  Churchill's  cottage, 
waited  for  an  answer  that  told  me  that  Churchill 
was  there,  and  then  slept,  and  slept, 

I  woke  back  in  the  world  again,  in  a  world  that 
contained  the  land  steward  and  the  manor  house. 
I  had  a  sense  of  recovered  power  from  the  sight 
of  them,  of  the  sunlight  on  the  stretches  of  turf, 
of  the  mellow,  golden  stonework  of  the  long 
range  of  buildings,  from  the  sound  of  a  chime  of 
[237] 


THE   INHERITORS 

bells  that  came  wonderfully  sweetly  over  the  soft 
swelling  of  the  close  turf.  The  feeling  came  not 
from  any  sense  of  prospective  ownership,  but 
from  the  acute  consciousness  of  what  these  things 
stood  for.  I  did  not  recognise  it  then,  but  later 
I  understood;  for  the  present  it  was  enough  to 
have  again  the  power  to  set  my  foot  on  the 
ground,  heel  first.  In  the  streets  of  the  little 
town  there  was  a  sensation  of  holiday,  not  pro- 
nounced enough  to  call  for  flags,  but  enough  to 
convey  the  idea  of  waiting  for  an  event. 

The  land  steward,  at  the  end  of  a  tour  amongst 
cottages,  explained  there  was  to  be  a  celebration 
in  the  neighbourhood — a  "  cock-and-hen  show 
with  a  political  annex  ";  the  latter  under  the  aus- 
pices of  Miss  Churchill.  Churchill  himself  was 
to  speak;  there  was  a  possibility  of  a  pronounce- 
ment. I  found  London  reporters  at  my  inn,  men 
I  half  knew.  They  expressed  mitigated  delight 
at  the  view  of  me,  and  over  a  lunch-table  let  me 
know  what  "  one  said  " — what  one  said  of  the 
outside  of  events  I  knew  too  well  internally. 
They  most  of  them  had  the  air  of  my  aunt's  so- 
licitor when  he  had  said,  "  Even  I  did  not  realise 
,  .  ."  their  positions  saving  them  the  neces- 
[238] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

sity  of  concealing  surprise.  "  One  can't  know 
everything."  They  fumbled  amusingly  about  the 
causes,  differed  with  one  another,  but  were  sur- 
prisingly unanimous  as  to  effects,  as  to  the  panic 
and  the  call  for  purification.  It  was  rather  ex- 
traordinary, too,  how  large  de  Mersch  loomed 
on  the  horizon  over  here.  It  was  as  if  the  whole 
world  centred  in  him,  as  if  he  represented  the 
modern  spirit  that  must  be  purified  away  by 
burning  before  things  could  return  to  their  nor- 
mal state.  I  knew  what  he  represented  .  .  . 
but  there  it  was. 

It  was  part  of  my  programme,  the  attendance 
at  the  poultry  show;  I  was  to  go  back  to  the 
cottage  with  Churchill,  after  he  had  made  his 
speech.  It  was  rather  extraordinary,  the  sensa- 
tions of  that  function.  I  went  in  rather  late,  with 
the  reporter  of  the  Hour,  who  was  anxious  to 
do  me  the  favour  of  introducing  me  without  pay- 
ment— it  was  his  way  of  making  himself  pleasant, 
and  I  had  the  reputation  of  knowing  celebrities. 
It  zvas  rather  extraordinan^  to  be  back  again  in 
the  midst  of  this  sort  of  thing,  to  be  walking  over 
a  crowded,  green  paddock,  hedged  in  with  tall 
trees  and  dotted  here  and  there  with  the  gaily 
[239] 


THE   INHERITORS 

striped  species  of  tent  that  is  called  marquee. 
And  the  type  of  face,  and  the  style  of  the  cos- 
tume !  They  would  have  seemed  impossible  the 
day  before  yesterday. 

There  were  all  Miss  Churchill's  gang  of  great 
dames,  muslin,  rusthng,  marriageable  daugh- 
ters, a  continual  twitter  of  voices,  and  a  sprinkling 
of  the  peasantry,  dun-coloured  and  struck  speech- 
less. 

One  of  the  great  ladies  surveyed  me  as  I  stood 
in  the  centre  of  an  open  space,  surveyed  me 
through  tortoise-shell  glasses  on  the  end  of  a 
long  handle,  and  beckoned  me  to  her  side. 

"  You  are  unattached?  "  she  asked.  She  had 
pretensions  to  voice  the  county,  just  as  my  aunt 
undoubtedly  set  the  tone  of  its  doings,  decided 
who  was  visitable,  and  just  as  Miss  Churchill  gave 
the  political  tone.  "  You  may  wait  upon  me, 
then,"  she  said;  "  my  daughter  is  with  her  young 
man.    That  is  the  correct  phrase,  is  it  not?  " 

She  was  a  great  lady,  who  stood  nearly  six  foot 
high,  and  whom  one  would  have  styled  buxom, 
had  one  dared.  "  I  have  a  grievance,"  she  went 
on;  "I  must  talk  to  someone.  Come  this  way. 
There!"  She  pointed  with  the  handle  of  her 
[240] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

glasses  to  a  pen  of  glossy  blackbirds.  "  You  sect 
.  .  .  Not  even  commended! — and  I  assure 
you  the  trouble  I  have  taken  over  them,  with  the 
idea  of  setting  an  example  to  the  tenantry,  is  in- 
credible. They  give  a  prize  to  one  of  our  own 
tenants  .  .  .  which  is  as  much  as  telling  the 
man  that  he  is  an  example  to  me.  Then  they 
wonder  that  the  country  is  going  to  the  dogs.  I 
assure  you  that  after  breakfast  I  have  had  the 
scraps  collected  from  the  plates — that  was  the 
course  recommended  by  the  poultry  manuals — 
and  have  taken  them  out  with  my  own  hands." 

The  sort  of  thing  passed  for  humour  in  the 
county,  and,  being  delivered  with  an  air  and  a 
half  Irish  ruefulness,  passed  well  enough. 

"  And  that  reminds  me,"  she  went  on,  " — I 
mean  the  fact  that  the  country  is  going  to  the 
dogs,  as  my  husband  [You  haven't  seen  him 
anywhere,  have  you?  He  is  one  of  the  judges, 
and  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  him  about  my 
Orpingtons]  says  every  morning  after  he  has 
looked  at  his  paper — that  ...  oh,  that  you 
have  been  in  Paris,  haven't  you?  with  your  aunt. 
Then,  of  course,  you  have  seen  this  famous  Due 
de  Mersch?" 

[241] 


THE   INHERITORS 

She  looked  at  me  humourously  through  her 
glasses.  "  I'm  going  to  pump  you,  you  know," 
she  said,  "  it  is  the  duty  that  is  expected  of  me. 
I  have  to  talk  for  a  countyful  of  women  without 
a  tongue  in  their  heads.  So  tell  me  about  him. 
Is  it  true  that  he  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  mis- 
chief? Is  it  through  him  that  this  man  com- 
mitted suicide?  They  say  so.  He  was  mixed 
up  in  that  Royalist  plot,  wasn't  he? — and  the 
people  that  have  been  failing  all  over  the  place 
are  mixed  up  with  him,  aren't  they?  " 

*'  I  .  .  .  I  really  don't  know,"  I  said;  "  if 
you  say  so     .     .     ." 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you  I'm  sound  enough,"  she  an- 
swered, "  the  Churchills — I  know  you're  a  friend 
of  his — haven't  a  stauncher  ally  than  I  am,  and  I 
should  only  be  too  glad  to  be  able  to  contradict. 
But  it's  so  difficult.  I  assure  you  I  go  out  of 
my  way;  talk  to  the  most  outrageous  people, 
deny  the  very  possibility  of  Mr.  Churchill's  being 
in  any  way  implicated.  One  knows  that  it's  im- 
possible, but  what  can  one  do?  I  have  said  again 
and  again — to  people  like  grocers'  wives;  even 
to  the  grocers,  for  that  matter — that  Mr.  Church- 
ill is  a  statesman,  and  that  if  he  insists  that  this 
[242] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

odious  man's  railway  must  go  through,  it  is  in 
the  interests  of  the  country  that  it  should.  I  tell 
them    .    .    ." 

She  paused  for  a  minute  to  take  breath  and 
then  went  on :  "I  was  speaking  to  a  man  of  that 
class  only  this  morning,  rather  an  intelligent 
man  and  quite  nice — I  was  saying,  *  Don't  you 
see,  my  dear  Mr.  Tull,  that  it  is  a  question  of 
international  politics.  If  the  grand  duke  does 
not  get  the  money  for  his  railway,  the  grand  duke 
will  be  turned  out  of  his — what  is  it — principal- 
ity? And  that  would  be  most  dangerous — in 
the  present  condition  of  affairs  over  there,  and 
besides  .  .  .'  Tlie  man  listened  very  respect- 
fully, but  I  could  see  that  he  was  not  convinced. 
I  buckled  to  again    .    .    . 

"  *  And  besides,'  I  said,  *  there  is  the  question 
of  Greenland  itself.  We  English  must  have 
Greenland  .  .  .  sooner  or  later.  It  touches 
you,  even.  You  have  a  son  who's  above — who 
doesn't  care  for  life  in  a  country  town,  and  you 
want  to  send  him  abroad — with  a  little  capital. 
Well,  Greenland  is  just  the  place  for  him.'  The 
man  looked  at  me,  and  almost  shook  his  head  in 
my  face. 

1 243  ] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  *  If  you'll  excuse  me,  my  lady,'  he  said,  '  it 
won't  do.  Mr.  Churchill  is  a  man  above  hocus- 
pocus.  Well  I  know  it  that  have  had  dealings 
with  him.  But  .  .  .  well,  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it  is,  my  lady,  that  you  can't  touch 
pitch  and  not  be  defiled;  or,  leastwise,  people'll 
think  you've  been  defiled — those  that  don't  know 
you.  The  foreign  nations  are  all  very  well, 
and  the  grand  duchy — and  the  getting  hold  of 
Greenland,  but  what  touches  me  is  this — My 
neighbour  Slingsby  had  a  little  money,  and  he 
gets  a  prospectus.  It  looked  very  well — very 
well — and  he  brings  it  in  to  me.  I  did  not  have 
anything  to  do  with  it,  but  Slingsby  did.  Well, 
now  there's  Slingsby  on  the  rates  and  his  wife  a 
lady  born,  almost.  I  might  have  been  taken  in 
the  same  way  but  for — for  the  grace  of  God,  I'm 
minded  to  say.  Well,  Slingsby's  a  good  man, 
and  used  to  be  a  hard-working  man — all  his  life, 
and  now  it  turns  out  that  that  prospectus  came 
about  by  the  man  de  Mersch's  manoeuvres — ■ 
"  wild-cat  schemes,"  they  call  them  in  the  paper 
that  I  read.  And  there's  any  number  of  them 
started  by  de  Mersch  or  his  agents.  Just  for 
what?  That  de  Mersch  may  be  the  richest  man 
[244] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

in  the  world  and  a  philanthropist.  Well,  then, 
Where's  Slingsby,  if  that's  philanthropy?  So  Mr. 
Churchill  comes  along  and  says,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  "  That's  all  very  well,  but  this  same  Mr. 
Mersch  is  the  grand  duke  of  somewhere  or  other, 
and  we  must  bolster  him  up  in  his  kingdom,  or 
else  there  will  be  trouble  with  the  powers." 
Powers — what's  powers  to  me? — or  Greenland? 
when  there's  Slingsby,  a  man  I've  smoked  a  pipe 
with  every  market  evening  of  my  life,  in  the 
workhouse?  And  there's  hundreds  of  Slingsbys 
all  over  the  country.' 

"  The  man  was  working  himself  —  Slingsby 
was  a  good  sort  of  man.  It  shocked  even  me. 
One  knows  what  goes  on  in  one's  own  village, 
of  course.  And  it's  only  too  true  that  there's 
hundreds  of  Slingsbys — I'm  not  boring  you,  am 
I?" 

I  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  "  I — I  had  no 
idea,"  I  said;  "  I  have  been  so  long  out  of  it  and 
over  there  one  did  not  realise  the  .  .  .  the 
feeHng." 

"  You've  been  well  out  of  it,"  she  answered; 
"  one  has  had  to  suffer,  I  assure  you."  I  believed 
that  she  had  had  to  suffer;  it  must  have  taken 
[245] 


THE    INHERITORS 

a  good  deal  to  make  that  lady  complain.  Her 
large,  ruddy  features  followed  the  droop  of  her 
eyes  down  to  the  fringe  of  the  parasol  that  she 
was  touching  the  turf  with.  We  were  sitting  on 
garden  seats  in  the  dappled  shade  of  enormous 
elms. 

There  was  in  the  air  a  touch  of  the  sounds  dis- 
coursed by  a  yeomanry  band  at  the  other  end  of 
the  grounds.  One  could  see  the  red  of  their  uni- 
forms through  moving  rifts  in  the  crowd  of  white 
dresses. 

"  That  wasn't  even  the  worst,"  she  said  sud- 
denly, lifting  her  eyes  and  looking  away  between 
the  trunks  of  the  trees.  "  The  man  has  been 
reading  the  papers  and  he  gave  me  the  benefit 
of  his  reflections.  '  Someone's  got  to  be  pun- 
ished for  this; '  he  said,  '  we've  got  to  show  them 
that  you  can't  be  hand-and-glove  with  that  sort 
of  blackguard,  without  paying  for  it.  I  don't 
say,  mind  you,  that  Mr.  Churchill  is  or  ever 
has  been.  I  know  him,  and  I  trust  him.  But 
there's  more  than  me  in  the  world,  and  they  can't 
all  know  him.  Well,  here's  the  papers  saying — 
or  they  don't  say  it,  but  they  hint,  which  is 
worse  in  a  way — that  he  must  be,  or  he  wouldn't 
[246] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

stick  up  for  the  man.  They  say  the  man's  a 
blackguard  out  and  out — in  Greenland  too;  has 
the  blacks  murdered.  Churchill  says  the  blacks 
are  to  be  safe-guarded,  that's  the  word.  Well, 
they  may  be — but  so  ought  Slingsby  to  have 
been,  yet  it  didn't  help  him.  No,  my  lady,  we've 
got  to  put  our  own  house  in  order  and  that  first, 
before  thinking  of  the  powers  or  places  like 
Greenland.  What's  the  good  of  the  saner  policy 
that  Mr.  Churchill  talks  about,  if  you  can't  trust 
anyone  with  your  money,  and  have  to  live  on 
the  capital?  If  you  can't  sleep  at  night  for  think- 
ing that  you  may  be  in  the  workhouse  to-mor- 
row— like  Slingsby?  The  first  duty  of  men  in 
Mr,  Churchill's  position — as  I  see  it — is  to  see 
that  we're  able  to  be  confident  of  honest  deal- 
ing. That's  what  we  want,  not  Greenlands. 
That's  how  we  all  feel,  and  you  know  it,  too,  or 
else  you,  a  great  lady,  wouldn't  stop  to  talk  to 
a  man  like  me.  And,  mind  you,  I'm  true  blue, 
always  have  been  and  always  shall  be,  and,  if  it 
was  a  matter  of  votes,  I'd  give  mine  to  Mr. 
Churchill  to-morrow.  But  there's  a  many  that 
wouldn't,  and  there's  a  many  that  believe  the 
hintings.' " 

[247] 


THE   INHERITORS 

My  lady  stopped  and  sighed  from  a  broad 
bosom.  "  What  could  I  say? "  she  went  on 
again.  "  I  know  Mr.  Churchill  and  I  like  him 
— and  everyone  that  knows  him  likes  him.  I'm 
one  of  the  stalwarts,  mind  you;  I'm  not  for  giv- 
ing in  to  popular  clamour;  I'm  for  the  'saner 
policy,'  like  Churchill.  But,  as  the  man  said: 
'  There's  a  many  that  believe  the  hintings.'  And 
I  almost  wish  Churchill  .  .  .  However,  you 
understand  what  I  meant  when  I  said  that  one 
had  had  to  suffer." 

"  Oh,  I  understand,"  I  said.  I  was  beginning 
to.  "  And  Churchill?  "  I  asked  later,  "  he  gives 
no  sign  of  relenting?  " 

"Would  you  have  him?"  she  asked  sharply; 
"  would  you  make  liim  if  you  could?  "  She  had 
an  air  of  challenging.  "  I'm  for  the  *  saner 
policy ! '  cost  what  it  may.  He  owes  it  to  him- 
self to  sacrifice  himself,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

"  I'm  with  you  too,"  I  answered,  "  over  boot 
and  spur."  Her  enthusiasm  was  contagious,  and 
unnecessary. 

"  Oh,  he'll  stick,"  she  began  again  after  con- 
sultation with  the  parasol  fringe.  "  You'll  hear 
him  after  a  minute.  It's  a  field  day  to-day. 
[248  I 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

You'll  miss  the  other  heavy  guns  if  you  stop  with 
me.  I  do  it  ostentatiously — wait  until  they've 
done.  They're  all  trembling;  all  of  them.  My 
husband  will  be  on  the  platform — trembling  too. 
He  is  a  type  of  them.  All  day  long  and  at  odd 
moments  at  night  I  talk  to  him — out-talk  him 
and  silence  him.  What's  the  state  of  popular 
feeling  to  him?  He's  for  the  country,  not  the 
town — this  sort  of  thing  has  nothing  to  do  with 
him.  It's  a  matter  to  be  settled  by  Jews  in  the 
City.  Well,  he  sees  it  at  night,  and  then  in  the 
morning  the  papers  undo  all  my  work.  He 
begins  to  talk  about  his  seat — which  /  got  for 
him.  I've  been  the  *  voice  of  the  county '  for 
years  now.  Well,  it'll  soon  be  a  voice  without 
a  county  .  .  .  What  is  it?  'The  old  order 
changeth.'  So,  I've  arranged  it  that  I  shall  wait 
until  the  trembling  big-wigs  have  stuttered  their 
speeches  out,  and  then  I'm  going  to  sail  down 
the  centre  aisle  and  listen  to  Churchill  with  vis- 
ible signs  of  approval.  It  won't  do  much  to- 
day, but  there  was  a  time  when  it  would  have 
changed  the  course  of  an  election  .  .  .  Ah, 
there's  Efifie's  young  man.    It's  time." 

She  rose  and  marched,  with  the  air  of  going  to 
I  249  ]. 


THE   INHERITORS 

a  last  sacrifice,  across  the  deserted  sward  toward 
a  young  man  who  was  passing  under  the  calico 
flag  of  the  gateway. 

"  It's  all  right,  Willoughby,"  she  said,  as  we 
drew  level,  "  I've  found  someone  else  to  face  the 
music  with  me;  you  can  go  back  to  Effie."  A 
bronzed  and  grateful  young  man  murmured 
thanks  to  me. 

"  It's  an  awful  relief,  Granger,"  he  said;  "  can't 
think  how  you  can  do  it.  I'm  hooked,  but 
you     .     .     ." 

"  He's  the  better  man,"  his  mother-in-law-elect 
said,  over  her  shoulder.  She  sailed  slowly  up  the 
aisle  beside  me,  an  almost  heroic  figure  of  a 
matron.  "  Splendidly  timed,  you  see,"  she  said, 
"  do  you  observe  my  husband's  embarrass- 
ment?" 

It  was  splendid  to  see  Churchill  again,  stand- 
ing there  negligently,  with  the  diffidence  of  a 
boy  amid  the  bustle  of  applause.  I  understood 
suddenly  why  I  loved  him  so,  this  tall,  gray  man 
with  the  delicate,  almost  grotesque,  mannerisms. 
He  appealed  to  me  by  sheer  force  of  picturesque- 
ness,  appealed  as  some  forgotten  mediaeval  city 
might.  I  was  concerned  for  him  as  for  some 
[250] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

such  dying  place,  standing  above  the  level  plains; 
I  was  jealous  lest  it  should  lose  one  jot  of  its 
glory,  of  its  renown.  He  advocated  his  sanef 
policy  before  all  those  people;  stood  up  there 
and  spoke  gently,  persuasively,  without  any  stress 
of  emotion,  without  more  movement  than  an 
occasional  flutter  of  the  glasses  he  held  in  his 
hand.  One  would  never  have  recognised  that 
the  thing  was  a  fighting  speech  but  for  the  oc- 
casional shiver  of  his  audience.  They  were  think- 
ing of  their  Shngsbys;  he  affecting,  insouciantly, 
to  treat  them  as  rational  people. 

It  was  extraordinai7  to  sit  there  shut  in  by 
that  wall  of  people  all  of  one  type,  of  one  idea; 
the  idea  of  getting  back;  all  conscious  that  a  force 
of  which  they  knew  nothing  was  dragging  them 
forward  over  the  edge  of  a  glacier,  into  a  crevasse. 
They  wanted  to  get  back,  were  struggling,  pant- 
ing even — as  a  nation  pants — to  get  back  by 
their  own  way  that  they  understood  and  saw; 
were  hauling,  and  hauling  desperately,  at  the 
weighted  rope  that  was  dragging  them  forward. 
Churchill  stood  up  there  and  repeated :  "  Mine  is 
the  only  way — the  saner  policy,"  and  his  words 
would  fly  all  over  the  country  to  fall  upon  the 
[251] 


THE   INHERITORS 

deaf  ears  of  the  panic-stricken,  who  could  not 
understand  the  use  of  calmness,  of  trifling  even, 
in  the  face  of  danger,  who  suspected  the  calm- 
ness as  one  suspects  the  thing  one  has  not.  At 
the  end  of  it  I  received  his  summons  to  a  small 
door  at  the  back  of  the  building.  The  speech 
seemed  to  have  passed  out  of  his  mind  far  more 
than  out  of  mine. 

"  So  you  have  come,"  he  said;  "that's  good, 
and  so  .  .  .  Let  us  walk  a  little  way  .  . 
.  out  of  this.  My  aunt  will  pick  us  up  on  the 
road."  He  linked  his  arm  into  mine  and  pro- 
pelled me  swiftly  down  the  bright,  broad  street. 
**  I'm  sorry  you  came  in  for  that,  but — one  has 
to  do  these  things." 

There  was  a  sort  of  resisted  numbness  in  his 
voice,  a  lack  of  any  resiliency.  My  heart  sank 
a  little.  It  was  as  if  I  were  beside  an  invalid 
who  did  not — must  not — know  his  condition; 
as  if  I  were  pledged  not  to  notice  anything. 
In  the  open  the  change  struck  home  as  a  ham- 
mer strikes;  in  the  pitiless  searching  of  the  un- 
restrained light,  his  grayness,  his  tremulousness, 
his  aloofness  from  the  things  about  him,  came 
home  to  me  like  a  pang. 

[252] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

"  You  look  a  bit  fagged,"  I  said,  "  perhaps  we 
ought  not  to  talk  about  work."  His  thoughts 
seemed  to  come  back  from  a  great  distance,  oh, 
from  an  infinite  distance  beyond  the  horizon,  the 
soft  hills  of  that  fat  country.  "  You  want  rest," 
I  added. 

"  I — oh,  no,"  he  answered,  "  I  can't  have  it  . 
.  .  till  the  end  of  the  session.  I'm  used  to  it 
too." 

He  began  talking  briskly  about  the  "  Crom- 
well; "  proofs  had  emerged  from  the  infinite  and 
wanted  attention.  There  were  innumerable  lit- 
tle matters,  things  to  be  copied  for  the  appendix 
and  revisions.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  keep 
my  mind  upon  them. 

It  had  come  suddenly  home  to  me  that  this  was 
the  world  that  I  belonged  to;  that  I  had  come 
back  to  it  as  if  from  an  under  world;  that  to  this 
I  owed  allegiance.  She  herself  had  recognised 
that;  she  herself  had  bidden  me  tell  him  what 
was  a-gate  against  him.  It  was  a  duty  too;  he 
was  my  friend.  But,  face  to  face  with  him,  it 
became  almost  an  impossibility.  It  was  impossi- 
ble even  to  put  it  into  words.  The  mere  ideas 
seemed  to  be  untranslatable,  to  savour  of  mad- 
[253] 


THE    INHERITORS 

ness,  I  found  myself  in  the  very  position  that  she 
had  occupied  at  the  commencement  of  our  rela- 
tions :  that  of  having  to  explain — say,  to  a  Persian 
— the  working  principles  of  the  telegraph.  And 
I  was  not  equal  to  the  task.  At  the  same  time  I 
had  to  do  something.  I  had  to.  It  would  be 
abominable  to  have  to  go  through  life  forever, 
alone  with  the  consciousness  of  that  sort  of  treach- 
ery of  silence.  But  how  could  I  tell  him  even  the 
comprehensibles?  What  kind  of  sentence  was  I 
to  open  with?  With  pluckings  of  an  apologetic 
string,  without  prelude  at  all — or  how?  I  grew 
conscious  that  there  was  need  for  haste;  he  was 
looking  behind  him  down  the  long  white  road  for 
the  carriage  that  was  to  pick  us  up. 

"  My  dear  fellow  .  .  ."I  began.  He  must 
have  noted  a  change  in  my  tone,  and  looked  at 
me  with  suddenly  lifted  eyebrows.  "  You  know 
my  sister  is  going  to  marry  Mr.  Gurnard." 

"  Why,  no,"  he  answered — "  that  is  .  .  . 
I've  heard  .  .  ."  he  began  to  offer  good 
wishes. 

"  No,  no,"  I  interrupted  him  hurriedly,  "  not 
that.  But  I  happen  to  know  that  Gurnard  is 
meditating  ...  is  going  to  separate  from 
[254] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

you  in  public  matters."  An  expression  of  dismay 
spread  over  his  face. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  began. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  drunk,"  I  said  bitterly,  "  but  I've 
been  behind  the  scenes — for  a  long  time.  And  I 
could  not  .  .  .  couldn't  let  the  thing  go  on 
without  a  word." 

He  stopped  in  the  road  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  daresay  .  .  .  But 
what  does  it  lead  to?  .  .  .  Even  if  I  could 
listen  to  you — /  can't  go  behind  the  scenes.  Mr. 
Gurnard  may  dififer  from  me  in  points,  but  don't 
you  see?  .  .  ."  He  had  walked  on  slowly, 
but  he  came  to  a  halt  again.  "  We  had  better  put 
these  matters  out  of  our  minds.  Of  course  you 
are  not  drunk;  but  one  is  tied  down  in  these  mat- 
ters    .     .     ." 

He  spoke  very  gently,  as  if  he  did  not  wish  to 
offend  me  by  this  closing  of  the  door.  He 
seemed  suddenly  to  grow  very  old  and  very  gray. 
There  was  a  stile  in  the  dusty  hedge-row,  and  he 
walked  toward  it,  meditating.  In  a  moment  he 
looked  back  at  me.  "  I  had  forgotten,"  he  said; 
"  I  meant  to  suggest  that  we  should  wait  here 
■ — I  am  a  little  tired."  He  perched  himself  on 
[255] 


THE   INHERITORS 

the  top  bar  and  became  lost  in  the  inspection  of 
the  cord  of  his  glasses.     I  went  toward  him. 

"  I  knew,"  I  said,  "  that  you  could  not  listen 
to  ...  to  the  sort  of  thing.  But  there  were 
reasons.  I  felt  forced.  You  will  forgive  me." 
He  looked  up  at  me,  starting  as  if  he  had  forgot- 
ten my  presence. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  certain — I  can't 
think  of  the  right  word — say  respect — for  your 
judgment  and — and  motives  .  .  .  But  you 
see,  there  are,  for  instance,  my  colleagues.  I 
couldn't  go  to  them  .  .  ."  He  lost  the 
thread  of  his  idea. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,"  I  said,  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse for  candour,  "  it  isn't  the  political  aspect  of 
the  matter,  but  the  personal.  I  spoke  because 
it  was  just  possible  that  I  might  be  of  service  to 
you — personally — and  because  I  would  like  you 
.  .  .  to  make  a  good  fight  for  it."  I  had 
borrowed  her  own  words. 

He  looked  up  at  me  and  smiled.  "  Thank 
you,"  he  said.  "  I  believe  you  think  it's  a  losing 
game,"  he  added,  with  a  touch  of  gray  humour 
that  was  like  a  genial  hour  of  sunlight  on  a  win- 
try day.  I  did  not  answer.  A  little  way  down 
[256] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

the  road  Miss  Churchill's  carriage  whirled  into 
sight,  sparkling  in  the  sunlight,  and  sending  up 
an  attendant  cloud  of  dust  that  melted  like 
smoke  through  the  dog-roses  of  the  leeward 
hedge. 

"  So  you  don't  think  much  of  me  as  a  politi- 
cian," Churchill  suddenly  deduced  smilingly. 
"  You  had  better  not  tell  that  to  my  aunt." 

I  went  up  to  town  with  Churchill  that  evening. 
There  was  nothing  waiting  for  me  there,  but  I 
did  not  want  to  think.  I  wanted  to  be  among 
men,  among  crowds  of  men,  to  be  dazed,  to  be 
stupefied,  to  hear  nothing  for  the  din  of  life,  to 
be  blinded  by  the  blaze  of  lights. 

There  were  plenty  of  people  in  Churchill's  car- 
riage; a  military  member  and  a  local  member 
happened  to  be  in  my  immediate  neighbourhood. 
Their  minds  were  full  of  the  financial  scandals, 
and  they  dinned  their  alternating  opinions  into 
me.  I  assured  them  that  I  knew  nothing  about 
the  matter,  and  they  grew  more  solicitous  for  my 
enlightenment. 

"  It  all  comes  from  having  too  many  eggs  in 
one  basket,"  the  local  member  summed  up. 
**  The  old-fashioned  small  enterprises  had  their 
[257] 


THE   INHERITORS 

disadvantages,  but — mind  you — these  gigantic 
trusts     .     .     .     Isn't  that  so,  General? " 

"  Oh,  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  the  general 
barked;  "at  the  same  time  .  .  ."  Their 
voices  sounded  on,  intermingling,  indistinguish- 
able, soothing  even.  I  seemed  to  be  listening  to 
the  hum  of  a  threshing-machine — a  passage  of 
sound  booming  on  one  note,  a  passage,  a  half- 
tone higher,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  Visible  things 
grew  hazy,  fused  into  one  another. 


[258] 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

WE  reached  London  somewhat  late  in 
the  evening — in  the  twilight  of  a  sum- 
mer day.  There  was  the  hurry  and 
bustle  of  arrival,  a  hurry  and  bustle  that  changed 
the  tenor  of  my  thoughts  and  broke  their  train. 
As  I  stood  reflecting  before  the  door  of  the 
carriage,  I  felt  a  friendly  pressure  of  a  hand  on 
my  shoulder. 

"  You'll  see  to  that,"  Churchill's  voice  said  in 
my  ear.     "  You'll  set  the  copyists  to  work." 

"  I'll  go  to  the  Museum  to-morrow,"  I  said. 
There  were  certain  extracts  to  be  made  for  the 
"  Life  of  Cromwell " — extracts  from  pamphlets 
that  we  had  not  conveniently  at  disposal.  He 
nodded,  walked  swiftly  toward  his  brougham, 
opened  the  door  and  entered. 

I  remember  so  well  that  last  sight  of  him — of 
his  long,  slim  figure  bending  down  for  the  en- 
trance, woefully  solitary,  woefully  weighted;  re- 
member so  well  the  gleam  of  the  carriage  panels 
reflecting  the  murky  light  of  the  bare  London 
[259] 


THE   INHERITORS 

terminus,  the  attitude  of  the  coachman  stiffly 
reining  back  the  horse;  the  thin  hand  that 
reached  out,  a  gleam  of  white,  to  turn  the  gleam- 
ing handle.  There  was  something  intimately 
suggestive  of  the  man  in  the  motion  of  that  hand, 
in  its  tentative  outstretching,  its  gentle,  half-per- 
suasive— almost  theoretic — grasp  of  the  handle. 
The  pleasure  of  its  friendly  pressure  on  my  shoul- 
der carried  me  over  some  minutes  of  solitude; 
its  weight  on  my  body  removing  another  from 
my  mind.  I  had  feared  that  my  ineffective  dis- 
closure had  chilled  what  of  regard  he  had  for  me. 
He  had  said  nothing,  his  manner  had  said  noth- 
ing, but  I  had  feared.  In  the  railway  carriage 
he  had  sat  remote  from  me,  buried  in  papers. 
But  that  touch  on  my  shoulder  was  enough  to 
set  me  well  with  myself  again,  if  not  to  afford 
scope  for  pleasant  improvisation.  It  at  least 
showed  me  that  he  bore  me  no  ill-will,  otherwise 
he  would  hardly  have  touched  m.e.  Perhaps, 
even,  he  was  grateful  to  me,  not  for  service,  but 
for  ineffectual  good-will.  Whatever  I  read  into 
it,  that  was  the  last  time  he  spoke  to  me,  and  the 
last  time  he  touched  me.  And  I  loved  him  very 
well.  Things  went  so  quickly  after  that. 
[260] 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

In  a  moderately  cheerful  frame  of  mind  I 
strolled  the  few  yards  that  separated  me  from  my 
club — intent  on  dining.  In  my  averseness  to  soli- 
tude I  sat  down  at  a  table  where  sat  already  a  little, 
bald-headed,  false-toothed  Anglo-Indian,  a  man 
who  bored  me  into  fits  of  nervous  excitement. 
He  was  by  way  of  being  an  incredibly  distant 
uncle  of  my  own.  As  a  rule  I  avoided  him,  to- 
night I  dined  with  him.  He  was  a  person  of 
interminable  and  incredibly  inaccurate  reminis- 
cences. His  long  residence  in  an  indigo-produc- 
ing swamp  had  affected  his  memory,  which  was 
supported  by  only  very  occasional  visits  to 
England. 

He  told  me  tales  of  my  poor  father  and  of  my 
poor,  dear  mother,  and  of  Mr.  Bromptons  and 
Mrs.  Kenwards  who  had  figured  on  their  visit- 
ing hsts  away  back  in  the  musty  sixties. 

"  Your  poor,  dear  father  was  precious  badly 
off  then,"  he  said;  "he  had  a  hard  struggle  for 
it.  I  had  a  bad  time  of  it  too;  worm  had  got  at 
all  my  plantations,  so  I  couldn't  help  him,  poor 
chap.  I  think,  mind  you,  Kenny  Granger  treat- 
ed him  very  badly.  He  might  have  done  some- 
thing for  him — he  had  influence,  Kenny  had." 
[261] 


THE   INHERITORS 

Kenny  was  my  uncle,  the  head  of  the  family, 
the  husband  of  my  aunt. 

"  They  weren't  on  terms,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  the  old  man  mumbled, 
"  but  still,  for  one's  only  brother  .  .  .  How- 
ever, you  contrive  to  do  yourselves  pretty  well. 
You're  making  your  pile,  aren't  you?  Someone 
said  to  me  the  other  day — can't  remem.ber  who  it 
was — that  you  were  quite  one  of  the  rising  men 
— quite  one  of  the  men." 

*'  Very  kind  of  someone,"  I  said. 

"  And  now  I  see,"  he  went  on,  lifting  up  a  copy 
of  a  morning  paper,  over  which  I  had  found  him 
munching  his  salmon  cutlet,  "  now  I  see  your 
sister  is  going  to  marry'  a  cabinet  minister. 
Ah!"  he  shook  his  poor,  muddled,  baked  head, 
"  I  remember  you  both  as  tiny  little  dots." 

"  Why,"  I  said,  "  she  can  hardly  have  been 
born  then." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  affirmed,  "  that  was  when  I  came 
over  in  '78.  She  remembered,  too,  that  I 
brought  her  over  an  ivory  doll — she  remem- 
bered." 

"  You  have  seen  her?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  called  two  or  three  weeks — no,  months 
[262] 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

— ago.  She's  the  image  of  your  poor,  dear 
mother,"  he  added,  "at  that  age;  I  remarked 
upon  it  to  your  aunt,  but,  of  course,  she  could  not 
remember.  They  were  not  married  until  after  the 
quarrel." 

A  sudden  restlessness  made  me  bolt  the  rest 
of  my  tepid  dinner.  With  my  return  to  the  up- 
per world,  and  the  return  to  me  of  a  will,  despair 
of  a  sort  had  come  back.  I  had  before  me  the 
problem — the  necessity — of  winning  her.  Once 
I  was  out  of  contact  with  her  she  grew  smaller, 
less  of  an  idea,  more  of  a  person — that  one  could 
win.  And  there  were  two  ways.  I  must  either 
woo  her  as  one  woos  a  person  barred;  must  com- 
pel her  to  take  flight,  to  abandon,  to  cast  away 
everything;  or  I  must  go  to  her  as  an  eligible 
suitor  with  the  Etchingham  acres  and  possibili- 
ties of  a  future  on  that  basis.  This  fantastic  old 
man  with  his  mumbled  reminiscences  spoilt  me 
for  the  last.  One  remembers  sooner  or  later 
that  a  county-man  may  not  marry  his  reputed 
sister  without  scandal.  And  I  craved  her  in- 
tensely. 

She  had  upon  me  the  effect  of  an  incredible 
stimulant;  away  from  her  I  was  like  a  drunkarc/ 
[263] 


THE   INHERITORS 

cut  off  from  his  liquor;  an  opium-taker  from  his 
drug.     I  hardly  existed;  I  hardly  thought. 

I  had  an  errand  at  my  aunt's  house;  had  a 
message  to  deliver,  sympathetic  enquiries  to 
make — and  I  wanted  to  see  her,  to  gain  some 
sort  of  information  from  her;  to  spy  out  the  land; 
to  ask  her  for  terms.  There  was  a  change  in  the 
appearance  of  the  house,  an  adventitious  bright- 
ness that  indicated  the  rise  in  the  fortunes  of  the 
family.  For  me  the  house  was  empty  and  the 
great  door  closed  hollowly  behind  me.  My  sister 
was  not  at  home.  It  seemed  abominable  to  me 
that  she  should  be  out;  that  she  could  be  talking 
to  anyone,  or  could  exist  without  me.  I  v/ent 
sullenly  across  the  road  to  the  palings  of  the 
square.  As  I  turned  the  corner  I  found  my  head 
pivoting  on  my  neck.  I  was  looking  over  my 
shoulder  at  the  face  of  the  house,  was  wondering 
which  was  her  window. 

"  Like  a  love-sick  boy — like  a  damn  love-sick 
boy,"  I  growled  at  myself.  My  sense  of  humour 
was  returning  to  me.  There  began  a  pilgrimage 
in  search  of  companionship. 

London  was  a  desert  more  solitary  than  was 
believable.  On  those  brilliant  summer  even- 
[264] 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

ings  the  streets  were  crowded,  were  alive,  bustled 
with  the  chitter-chatter  of  footsteps,  with  the 
chitter-chatter  of  voices,  of  laughter. 

It  was  impossible  to  walk,  impossible  to  do 
more  than  tread  on  one's  own  toes;  one  was  al- 
most bhnded  by  the  constant  passing  of  faces.  It 
was  like  being  in  a  wheat-field  with  one's  eyes  on 
a  level  with  the  indistinguishable  ears.  One  was 
alone  in  one's  intense  contempt  for  all  these  faces, 
all  these  contented  faces;  one  towered  intellect- 
ually above  them;  one  towered  into  regions  of 
rarefaction.  And  down  below  they  enjoyed 
themselves.  One  understood  life  better;  they 
better  how  to  live.  That  struck  me  then — in  Ox- 
ford Street.  There  was  the  intense  good-hu- 
mour, the  absolute  disregard  of  the  minor  incon- 
veniences, of  the  inconveniences  of  a  crowd,  of 
the  ignominy  of  being  one  of  a  crowd.  There 
was  the  intense  poetry  of  the  soft  light,  the  poetry 
of  the  summer-night  coolness,  and  they  under- 
stood how  to  enjoy  it.  I  turned  up  an  ancient 
court  near  Bedford  Row. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,"  I  said,  "  I  will  enjoy 
.  .  ."  and  I  did.  The  poetry  of  those  old  de- 
serted quarters  came  suddenly  home  to  me — all 
[265] 


THE    INHERITORS 

the  little  commonplace  thoughts;  all  the  com- 
monplace associations  of  Georgian  London. 
For  the  time  I  was  done  with  the  meanings  of 
things. 

I  was  seeking  Lea — he  was  not  at  home.  The 
quarter  was  honeycombed  with  the  homes  of  peo- 
ple one  knows;  of  people  one  used  to  know,  ex- 
cellent young  men  who  wrote  for  the  papers, 
who  sub-edited  papers,  who  designed  posters, 
who  were  always  just  the  same.  One  forgot  them 
for  a  year  or  two,  one  came  across  them  again 
and  found  them  just  the  same — still  writing  for 
the  same  papers,  still  sub-editing  the  same  pa- 
pers, designing  the  same  posters.  I  was  in  the 
mood  to  rediscover  them  in  the  privacies  of  their 
hearths,  with  the  same  excellent  wives  making 
fair  copies  of  the  same  manuscripts,  with  the  same 
gaiety  of  the  same  indifferent  whiskey,  brown  or 
pale  or  suspicious-looking,  in  heavy,  square,  cut- 
glass  stoppered  decanters,  and  with  the  same  in- 
different Virginian  tobacco  at  the  same  level  in 
the  same  jars. 

I  was  in  the  mood  for  this  stability,  for  the 
excellent  household  article  that  was  their  view 
of  life  and  literature.  I  wanted  to  see  it  again, 
[266] 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

to  hear  again  how  it  was  filling  the  unvarying, 
allotted  columns  of  the  daily,  the  weekly,  or  the 
monthly  journals.  I  wanted  to  breathe  again 
this  mild  atmosphere  where  there  are  no  longer 
hopes  or  fears.     But,  alas!     .     .     . 

I  rang  bell  after  bell  of  that  gloomy  central 
London  district.  You  know  what  happens. 
One  pulls  the  knob  under  the  name  of  the  person 
one  seeks — pulls  it  three,  or,  it  may  be,  four  times 
in  vain.  One  rings  the  housekeeper's  bell;  it  re- 
verberates, growing  fainter  and  fainter,  gradu- 
ally stifled  by  a  cavernous  subterranean  at- 
mosphere. After  an  age  a  head  peeps  round  the 
opening  door,  the  head  of  a  hopeless  anachron- 
ism, the  head  of  a  widow  of  early  Victorian  merit, 
or  of  an  orphan  of  incredible  age.  One  asks  for 
So-and-so — he's  out;  for  Williams — he's  expect- 
ing an  increase  of  family,  and  has  gone  into  the 
country  with  madame.  And  Waring?  Oh,  he's 
gone  no  one  knows  where,  and  Johnson  who  used 
to  live  at  Number  44  only  comes  up  to  town  on 
Tuesdays  now.  I  exhausted  the  possibilities  of 
that  part  of  Bloomsbury,  the  possibilities  of  va- 
riety in  the  types  of  housekeepers.  The  rest  of 
London  divided  itself  into  bands — into  zones. 
[267] 


THE   INHERITORS 

Between  here  and  Kensington  the  people  that  I 
knew  could  not  be  called  on  after  dinner,  those 
who  lived  at  Chiswick  and  beyond  were  hyper- 
borean— one  was  bound  by  the  exigencies  of 
time.  It  was  ten  o'clock  as  I  stood  reflecting  on 
a  doorstep — on  Johnson's  doorstep.  I  must  see 
somebody,  must  talk  to  somebody,  before  I  went 
to  bed  in  the  cheerless  room  at  the  club.  It  was 
true  I  might  find  a  political  stalwart  in  the  smok- 
ing-room— but  that  was  a  last  resort,  a  desperate 
and  ignominious  pis  allcr. 

There  was  Fox,  I  should  find  him  at  the  office. 
But  it  needed  a  change  of  tone  before  I  could 
contemplate  with  equanimity  the  meeting  of  that 
individual.  I  had  been  preparing  myself  to  con- 
front all  the  ethically  excellent  young  men  and 
Fox  was,  ethically  speaking,  far  from  excellent, 
middle-aged,  rubicund,  leery — a  free  lance  of 
genius.  I  made  the  necessary  change  in  my 
tone  of  mind  and  ran  him  to  earth. 

The  Watteau  room  was  further  enlivened  by 
the  introduction  of  a  scarlet  plush  couch  of 
sumptuous  design.  By  its  side  stood  a  couple  of 
electric  lights.  The  virulent  green  of  their 
shades  made  the  colours  of  the  be-shepherded 
[268] 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

wall-panels  appear  almost  unearthly,  and  threw 
impossible  shadows  on  the  deal  partition.  Round 
the  couch  stood  chairs  with  piles  of  papers  neatly 
arranged  on  them;  round  it,  on  the  floor,  were 
more  papers  lying  like  the  leaves  of  autumn  that 
one  sings  of.  On  it  lay  Fox,  enveloped  in  a 
Shetland  shawl — a  good  shawl  that  was  the  only 
honest  piece  of  workmanship  in  the  tom-tawdry 
place.  Fox  was  as  rubicund  as  ever,  but  his 
features  were  noticeably  peaked  and  there  were 
heavy  lines  under  his  eyes — lines  cast  into  deep 
shadow  by  the  light  by  which  he  was  reading. 
I  entered  unannounced,  and  was  greeted  by  an 
indifferent  upward  glance  that  changed  into  one 
of  something  like  pleasure  as  he  made  out  my 
features  in  the  dim  light. 

"  Hullo,  you  old  country  hawbuck,"  he  said, 
with  spasmodic  jocularity;  "  Fm  uncommon  glad 
to  see  you."  He  came  to  a  jerky  close,  with  an 
indrawing  of  his  breath.  "  Fm  about  done,"  he 
went  on.  "  Same  old  thing — sciatica.  Took  me 
just  after  I  got  here  this  afternoon;  sent  out  one 
of  the  messengers  to  buy  me  a  sofa,  and  here 
Fve  been  ever  since.  Well,  and  what's  brought 
you  up — don't  answer,  I  know  all  about  it.  I've 
[269] 


THE    INHERITORS 

got  to  keep  on  talking  until  this  particular  spasm's 
over,  or  else  I  shall  scream  and  disturb  the  flow 
of  Soane's  leader.  Well,  and  now  you've  come, 
you'll  stop  and  help  me  to  put  the  Hour  to  bed, 
won't  you?  And  then  you  can  come  and  put  me 
to  bed." 

He  went  on  talking  at  high  pressure,  exag- 
gerating his  expressions,  heightening  his  humor- 
ous touches  with  punctuations  of  rather  wild 
laughter.  At  last  he  came  to  a  stop  with  a  half 
suppressed  "  Ah!  "  and  a  long  indrawing  of  the 
breath. 

"  That's  over,"  he  said.  "  Give  me  a  drop  of 
brandy — there's  a  good  fellow."  I  gave  him  his 
nip.  Then  I  explained  to  him  that  I  couldn't 
work  for  the  Hour;  that  I  wasn't  on  terms  with 
de  Mersch. 

"  Been  dropping  money  over  him?  "  he  asked, 
cheerfully.  I  explained  a  little  more — that  there 
was  a  lady. 

"  Oh,  it's  that,''  Fox  said.  "  The  man  is  a 
fool  .  .  .  But  anyhow  Mersch  don't  count 
for  much  in  this  particular  show.  He's  no  money 
in  it  even,  so  you  may  put  your  pride  in  your 
pocket,  or  wherever  you  keep  it.  It's  all  right. 
Straight.  He's  only  the  small  change." 
[270] 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  everyone  says;  you  said  your- 
self    .     .     ." 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  answered.  "  But  you  don't 
think  that  /  play  second  fiddle  to  a  bounder  of 
that  calibre.     Not  really?  " 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  certain  seriousness. 
I  remembered,  as  I  had  remembered  once  before, 
that  Fox  was  a  personality — a  power.  I  had  never 
realised  till  then  how  entirely — fundamentally — , 
difTerent  he  was  from  any  other  man  that  I  knew. 
He  was  surprising  enough  to  have  belonged  to 
another  race.  He  looked  at  me,  not  as  if  he  cared 
whether  I  gave  him  his  due  or  no,  but  as  if  he  were 
astonished  at  my  want  of  perception  of  the  fact. 
He  let  his  towzled  head  fall  back  upon  the  plush 
cushions.  "  You  might  kick  him  from  here  to 
Greenland  for  me,"  he  said;  "  I  wouldn't  weep. 
It  suits  me  to  hold  him  up,  and  a  kicking  might 
restore  his  equilibrium.  I'm  sick  of  him — I've 
told  him  so.  I  knew  there  zvas  a  woman.  But 
don't  you  worry;  Fm  the  man  here." 

"  If  that's  the  case    .    .    ."I  said. 

"  Oh,  that's  it,"  he  answered. 

I  helped  him  to  put  the  paper  to  bed;  took 
some  of  the  work  off  his  hands.  It  was  all  part 
of  the  getting  back  to  life;  of  the  resuming  o! 
[271] 


THE   INHERITORS 

rusty  armour;  and  I  wanted  to  pass  the  night. 
I  was  not  unused  to  it,  as  it  happened.  Fox  had 
had  several  of  these  fits  during  my  year,  and  dur- 
ing most  of  them  I  had  helped  him  through  the 
night;  once  or  twice  for  three  on  end.  Once  I 
had  had  entire  control  for  a  matter  of  five  nights. 
But  they  gave  me  a  new  idea  of  Fox,  those  two 
or  three  weird  hours  that  night.  It  was  as  if  I 
had  never  seen  him  before.  The  attacks  grew 
more  virulent  as  the  night  advanced.  He  groaned 
and  raved,  and  said  things — oh,  the  most  as- 
tounding things  in  gibberish  that  upset  one's 
nerves  and  everything  else.  At  the  height  he 
sang  hymns,  and  then,  as  the  fits  passed,  relapsed 
into  incredible  clear-headedness.  It  gave  me,  I 
say,  a  new  idea  of  Fox.  It  was  as  if,  for  all  the 
time  I  had  known  him,  he  had  been  playing  a  part, 
and  that  only  now,  in  the  delirium  of  his  pain, 
in  the  madness  into  which  he  drank  himself,  were 
fragments  of  the  real  man  thrown  to  the  surface. 
I  grew,  at  last,  almost  afraid  to  be  alone  with 
him  in  the  dead  small  hours  of  the  morning,  and 
longed  for  the  time  when  I  could  go  to  bed  among 
the  uninspiring,  marble-topped  furniture  of  my 
club. 

[272] 


CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN 

1^  T  noon  of  the  next  day  I  gave  Fox  his 

J-\     look  in  at  his  own  flat.     He  was  stretched 

■^   "^  upon  a  sofa — it  w^as  evident  that  I  was 

to  take  such  of  his  duties  as  were  takeable.     He 

greeted  me  with  words  to  that  effect. 

"  Don't  go  fining  the  paper  with  your  un- 
breeched  geniuses,"  he  said,  genially,  "  and  don't 
overwork  yourself.  There's  really  nothing  to  do, 
but  you're  being  there  will  keep  that  little  beast 
Evans  from  getting  too  cock-a-hoop.  He'd  like 
to  jerk  me  out  altogether;  thinks  they'd  get  on 
just  as  well  without  me." 

I  expressed  in  my  manner  general  contempt 
for  Evans,  and  was  taking  my  leave. 

"  Oh,  and — "  Fox  called  after  me.  I  turned 
back.  "  The  Greenland  mail  ought  to  be  in  to- 
day. If  Callan's  contrived  to  get  his  flood-gates 
open,  run  his  stufif  in,  there's  a  good  chap.  It's 
a  feature  and  all  that,  you  know." 

"  I  suppose  Soane's  to  have  a  look  at  it,"  I 
asked. 

[273] 


THE   INHERITORS 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered;  "  but  tell  him  to  keep 
strictly  to  old  Cal's  lines — rub  that  into  him.  If 
he  were  to  get  drunk  and  run  in  some  of  his  own 
tips  it'd  be  awkward.  People  are  expecting  Cal's 
stuff.  Tell  you  what:  you  take  him  out  to  lunch, 
eh?  Keep  an  eye  on  the  supplies,  and  ram  it 
into  him  that  he's  got  to  stick  to  Cal's  line  of 
argument." 

"  Soane's  as  bad  as  ever,  then?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,"  Fox  answered,  "  he'll  be  all  right  for 
the  stuff  if  you  get  that  one  idea  into  him."  A 
prolonged  and  acute  fit  of  pain  seized  him.  I 
fetched  his  man  and  left  him  to  his  rest. 

At  the  office  of  the  Hour  I  was  greeted  by  the 
handing  to  me  of  a  proof  of  Callan's  manuscript. 
Evans,  the  man  across  the  screen,  Vv^as  the  imme- 
diate agent. 

"  I  suppose  it's  got  to  go  in,  so  I  had  it  set 
up,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  of  course  it's  got  to  go  in,"  I  answered. 
"  It's  to  go  to  Soane  first,  though." 

"  Soane's  not  here  yet,"  he  answered.  I  noted 
the  tone  of  sub-acid  pleasure  in  his  voice.  Evans 
would  have  enjoyed  a  fiasco. 

"  Oh,  well,"  I  answered,  nonchalantly,  "  there's 
[274] 


CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN 

plenty  of  time.  You  allow  space  on  those  lines. 
I'll  send  round  to  hunt  Soane  up." 

I  felt  called  to  be  upon  my  mettle.  I  didn't 
much  care  about  the  paper,  but  I  had  a  definite 
antipathy  to  being  done  by  Evans — by  a  mad 
Welshman  in  a  stubborn  fit.  I  knew  what  was 
going  to  happen;  knew  that  Evans  would  feign 
inconceivable  stupidity,  the  sort  of  black  stupid- 
ity that  is  at  command  of  individuals  of  his 
primitive  race.  I  was  in  for  a  day  of  petty  wor- 
ries. In  the  circumstances  it  was  a  thing  to  be 
thankful  for;  it  dragged  my  mind  away  from 
larger  issues.  One  has  no  time  for  brooding 
when  one  is  driving  a  horse  in  a  jibbing  fit. 

Evans  was  grimly  conscious  that  I  was  mod- 
erately ignorant  of  technical  details;  he  kept 
them  well  before  my  eyes  all  day  long. 

At  odd  moments  I  tried  to  read  Callan's  arti- 
cle. It  was  impossible.  It  opened  with  a  de- 
scription of  the  squalor  of  the  Greenlander's  life, 
and  contained  tawdry  passages  of  local  colour. 

I  knew  what  was  coming.  This  was  the  view 
of  the  Greenlanders  of  pre-Merschian  Greenland, 
elaborated,  after  the  manner  of  Callan — the'  Spe- 
cial Commissioner — so  as  to  bring  out  the  glory 
[  275  ] 


THE    INHERITORS 

and  virtue  of  the  work  of  regeneration.  Then  in 
a  gush  of  superlatives  the  work  itself  would  be 
described.  I  knew  quite  well  what  was  coming, 
and  was  temperamentally  unable  to  read  more 
than  the  first  ten  lines. 

Everything  was  going  wrong.  The  printers 
developed  one  of  their  sudden  crazes  for  asking 
idiotic  questions.  Their  messengers  came  to 
Evans,  Evans  sent  them  round  the  pitch-pine 
screen  to  me.     "  Mr.  Jackson  wants  to  know 


The  fourth  of  the  messengers  that  I  had  de- 
spatched to  Soane  returned  with  the  news  that 
Soane  would  arrive  at  half-past  nine.  I  sent  out 
in  search  of  the  strongest  coffee  that  the  city 
afforded.  Soane  arrived.  He  had  been  ill,  he 
said,  very  ill.  He  desired  to  be  fortified  with 
champagne.     I  produced  the  coffee. 

Soane  was  the  son  of  an  Irish  peer.  He  had 
magnificent  features — a  little  blurred  nowadays 
— and  a  remainder  of  the  grand  manner.  His 
nose  was  a  marvel  of  classic  workmanship,  but 
the  floods  of  time  had  reddened  and  speckled  it 
— not  offensively,  but  ironically;  his  hair  was 
turning  grey,  his  eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  heavy 
[276] 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 
moustache  rather  ragged.  He  inspired  one  with 
the  respect  that  one  feels  for  a  man  who  has  lived 
and  does  not  care  a  curse.  He  had  a  weird  inter- 
mittent genius  that  made  it  worth  Fox's  while 
to  put  up  with  his  lapses  and  his  brutal  snubs. 

I  produced  the  cofifee  and  pointed  to  the  sofa 
of  the  night  before. 

"  Damn  it,"  he  said,  "  I'm  ill,  I  tell  you;  I 
want    .    .    ." 

"  Exactly !  "  I  cut  in.  "  You  want  a  rest,  old 
fellow.  Here's  Cal's  article.  We  want  some- 
thing special  about  it.  If  you  don't  feel  up  to  it 
I'll  send  round  to  Jenkins." 

"  Damn  Jenkins,"  he  said;  "  I'm  up  to  it." 

"  You  understand,"  I  said,  "  you're  to  write 
strictly  on  Callan's  lines.  Don't  insert  any  in- 
formation from  extraneous  sources.  And  make 
it  as  slashing  as  you  like — on  those  lines." 

He  grunted  in  acquiescence.  I  left  him  lying 
on  the  sofa,  drinking  the  coffee.  I  had  tenderly 
arranged  the  lights  for  him  as  Fox  had  arranged 
them  the  night  before.  As  I  went  out  to  get 
my  dinner  I  was  comfortably  aware  of  him,  hold- 
ing the  slips  close  to  his  muddled  eyes  and  philo- 
sophically damning  the  nature  of  things. 
[277] 


THE   INHERITORS 

When  I  returned,  Soane,  from  his  sofa,  said 
something  that  I  did  not  catch — something  about 
Callan  and  his  article. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,"  I  answered,  "  don't 
worry  me.  Have  some  more  coffee  and  stick  to 
Cal's  line  of  argument.  That's  what  Fox  said. 
I'm  not  responsible." 

"  Deuced  queer,"  Soane  muttered.  He  began 
to  scribble  with  a  pencil.  From  the  tone  of  his 
voice  I  knew  that  he  had  reached  the  precise 
stage  at  which  something  brilliant — the  real  thing 
of  its  kind — might  be  expected. 

Very  late  Soane  finished  his  leader.  He  looked 
up  as  he  wrote  the  last  word. 

"  I've  got  it  written,"  he  said.  "  But  .  .  . 
I  say,  what  the  deuce  is  up?  It's  like  being  a  tall 
clock  with  the  mainspring  breaking,  this." 

I  rang  the  bell  for  someone  to  take  the  copy 
down. 

"  Your  metaphor's  too  much  for  me,  Soane," 
I  said. 

"  It's  appropriate  all  the  way  along,"  he  main- 
tained, "  if  you  call  me  a  mainspring.  I've  been 
wound  up  and  wound  up  to  write  old  de  Mersch 
and  his  Greenland  up — and  it's  been  a  tight 
[278] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

wind,  these  days,  I  tell  you.  Then  all  of  a 
sudden     .     .     ." 

A  boy  appeared  and  carried  off  the  copy. 

"  All  of  a  sudden,"  Soane  resumed,  "  some- 
thing gives — I  suppose  something's  given — and 
there's  a  whirr-rr-rr  and  the  hands  fly  backwards 
and  old  de  Mersch  and  Greenland  bump  to  the 
bottom,  like  the  weights." 

The  boom  of  the  great  presses  was  rattling  the 
window  frames.  Soane  got  up  and  walked  to- 
ward one  of  the  cupboards. 

"  Dry  work,"  he  said;  "  but  the  simile's  just, 
isn't  it?  " 

I  gave  one  swift  step  toward  the  bell-button 
beside  the  desk.  The  proof  of  Callan's  article, 
from  which  Soane  had  been  writing,  lay  a 
crumpled  white  streamer  on  the  brown  wood  of 
Fox's  desk.  I  made  toward  it.  As  I  stretched 
out  my  hand  the  solution  slipped  into  my  mind, 
coming  with  no  more  noise  than  that  of  a  bullet; 
impinging  with  all  the  shock  and  remaining  with 
all  the  pain,  I  had  remembered  the  morning, 
over  there  in  Paris,  when  she  had  told  me  that  she 
had  invited  one  of  de  Mersch's  Heutenants  to  be- 
tray him  by  not  concealing  from  Callan  the  real 
[279] 


THE   INHERITORS 

horrors  of  the  Systeme  Groenlandais — flogged, 
butchered,  miserable  natives,  the  famines,  the 
vices,  diseases,  and  the  crimes.  There  came  sud- 
denly before  my  eyes  the  tall  narrow  room  in  my 
aunt's  house,  the  opening  of  the  door  and  her  en- 
try, followed  by  that  of  the  woebegone  governor 
of  a  province — the  man  who  was  to  show  Callan 
things — with  his  grating  "  Cest  entcndu  .  .  ." 
I  remembered  the  scene  distinctly;  her  words; 
her  looks;  my  utter  unbeHef.  I  remembered,  too, 
that  it  had  not  saved  me  from  a  momentary 
sense  of  revolt  against  that  inflexible  intention 
of  a  treachery  which  was  to  be  another  step 
toward  the  inheritance  of  the  earth.  I  had  re- 
jected the  very  idea,  and  here  it  had  come;  it 
was  confronting  me  with  all  its  meaning  and  con- 
sequences. Callan  had  been  shown  things  he  had 
not  been  meant  to  see,  and  had  written  the  truth 
as  he  had  seen  it.  His  article  was  a  small  thing 
in  itself,  but  he  had  been  sent  out  there  with  tre- 
mendous flourishes  of  de  Mersch's  trumpets.  He 
was  the  man  who  could  be  believed.  De  Mersch's 
supporters  had  practically  said:  ''If  he  con- 
demns us  we  are  indeed  damned."  And  now  that 
the  condemnation  had  come,  it  meant  ruin,  as  it 
[  280  ] 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 
seemed  to  me,  for  everybody  I  had  known, 
worked  for,  seen,  or  heard  of,  during  the  last  year 
of  my  life.  It  was  ruin  for  Fox,  for  Churchill,  for 
the  ministers,  and  for  the  men  who  talk  in  railway 
carriages,  for  shopkeepers  and  for  the  Govern- 
ment; it  was  a  menace  to  the  institutions  which 
hold  us  to  the  past,  that  are  our  guarantees  for  the 
future.  The  safety  of  everything  one  respected 
and  believed  in  was  involved  in  the  disclosure  of 
an  atrocious  fraud,  and  the  disclosure  was  in  my 
hands.  For  that  night  I  had  the  power  of  the 
press  in  my  keeping.  People  were  waiting  for 
this  pronouncement.  De  Mersch's  last  card  was 
his  philanthropy;  his  model  state  and  his  happy 
natives. 

The  drone  of  the  presses  made  the  floor  under 
my  feet  quiver,  and  the  whole  building  vibrated 
as  if  the  earth  itself  had  trembled.  I  was  alone- 
with  my  knowledge.  Did  she  know;  had  she 
put  the  power  in  my  hand?  But  I  was  alone, 
and  I  was  free. 

I  took  up  the  proof  and  began  to  read,  slant- 
ing the  page  to  the  fall  of  the  light.     It  was  a 
phrenetic  indictment,  but  under  the  paltry  rhet- 
oric of  the  man  there  was  genuine  indignation 
[281] 


THE    INHERITORS 

and  pain.  There  were  revolting  details  of  cruelty 
to  the  miserable,  helpless,  and  defenceless;  there 
were  greed,  and  self-seeking,  stripped  naked; 
but  more  revolting  to  see  without  a  mask  was 
that  falsehood  which  had  been  hiding  under  the 
words  that  for  ages  had  spurred  men  to  noble 
deeds,  to  self-sacrifice,  to  heroism.  What  was 
appalling  was  the  sudden  perception  that  all 
the  traditional  ideals  of  honour,  glory,  consci- 
ence, had  been  committed  to  the  upholding  of  a 
gigantic  and  atrocious  fraud.  The  falsehood  had 
spread  stealthily,  had  eaten  into  the  very  heart 
of  creeds  and  convictions  that  we  lean  upon  on 
our  passage  between  the  past  and  the  future. 
The  old  order  of  things  had  to  live  or  perish  with 
a  lie.  I  saw  all  this  with  the  intensity  and  clear- 
ness of  a  revelation ;  I  saw  it  as  though  I  had  been 
asleep  through  a  year  of  work  and  dreams,  and 
had  awakened  to  the  truth.  I  saw  it  all;  I  saw 
her  intention.    What  was  I  to  do? 

Without  my  marking  its  approach  emotion 
was  upon  me.  The  fingers  that  held  up  the  ex- 
tended slips  tattooed  one  on  another  through  its 
negligible  thickness. 

"  Pretty  thick  that,"  Soane  said.  He  was  look- 
[282] 


CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN 

ing  back  at  me  from  the  cupboard  he  had  opened. 
"  I've  rubbed  it  in,  too  .  .  .  there'll  be  hats 
on  the  green  to-morrow."  He  had  his  head  in- 
side the  cupboard,  and  his  voice  came  to  me 
hollowly.  He  extracted  a  large  bottle  with  a  gilt- 
foiled  neck. 

"  Won't  it  upset  the  apple  cart  to-morrow," 
he  said,  very  loudly;  "  won't  it?  " 

His  voice  acted  on  me  as  the  slight  shake  upon 
a  phial  full  of  waiting  chemicals;  crystallised 
them  suddenly  with  a  little  click.  Everything 
suddenly  grew  very  clear  to  me.  I  suddenly 
understood  that  all  the  tortuous  intrigue  hinged 
upon  what  I  did  in  the  next  few  minutes.  It 
rested  with  me  now  to  stretch  out  my  hand  to 
that  button  in  the  wall  or  to  let  the  whole  world— 
"  the  ,  .  .  the  probity  .  .  .  that  sort  of 
thing,"  she  had  said — fall  to  pieces.  The  drone 
of  the  presses  continued  to  make  itself  felt  like 
the  quiver  of  a  suppressed  emotion.  I  might 
stop  them  or  I  might  not.  It  rested  with 
me. 

Everybody  was  in  my  hands;  they  were  quite 
small.     If  I  let  the  thing  go  on,  they  would  be 
done  for  utterly,  and  the  new  era  would  begin. 
[283] 


THE   INHERITORS 

Soane  had  got  hold  of  a  couple  of  long-stalked 
glasses.  They  clinked  together  whilst  he 
searched  the  cupboard  for  something. 

"  Eh,  what?  "  he  said.  "  It  is  pretty  strong, 
isn't  it?  Ought  to  shake  out  some  of  the  sup- 
porters, eh?  Bill  comes  on  to-morrow  .  .  . 
do  for  that,  I  should  think."  He  wanted  a  cork- 
screw very  badly. 

But  that  was  precisely  it — it  would  "  shake  out 
some  of  the  supporters,"  and  give  Gurnard  his 
patent  excuse.  Churchill,  I  knew,  would  stick  to 
his  line,  the  saner  policy.  But  so  many  of  the 
men  who  had  stuck  to  Churchill  would  fall  away 
now,  and  Gurnard,  of  course,  would  lead  them  to 
his  own  triumph. 

It  was  a  criminal  verdict.  Callan  had  gone  out 
as  a  commissioner — with  a  good  deal  of  drum- 
beating.  And  this  was  his  report,  this  shriek. 
If  it  sounded  across  the  house-tops — if  I  let  it — 
good-by  to  the  saner  policy  and  to  Churchill.  It 
did  not  make  any  difference  that  Churchill's  was 
the  saner  policy,  because  there  was  no  one  in  the 
nation  sane  enough  to  see  it.  They  wanted  pu- 
rity in  high  places,  and  here  was  a  definite,  crim- 
inal indictment  against  de  Mersch.  And  de 
[284], 


CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN 

Mersch  would — in  a  manner  of  speaking,  have  to 
be  lynched,  policy  or  no  policy. 

She  wanted  this,  and  in  all  the  earth  she  was 
the  only  desirable  thing.  If  I  thwarted  her — she 
would  .  .  .  what  would  she  do  now?  I 
looked  at  Soane, 

"  What  would  happen  if  I  stopped  the 
presses?  "  I  asked.  Soane  was  twisting  his  cork- 
screw in  the  wire  of  the  champagne  bottle. 

It  was  fatal;  1  could  see  nothing  on  earth  but 
her.  What  else  was  there  in  the  world.  Wine? 
The  light  of  the  sun?  The  wind  on  the  heath? 
Honour!  My  God,  what  was  honour  to  me  if  I 
could  see  nothing  but  her  on  earth?  Would 
honour  or  wine  or  sun  or  wind  ever  give  me  what 
she  could  give?     Let  them  go. 

"  What  would  happen  if  what?  "  Soane  grum- 
bled, "  D — n  this  wire." 

"  Oh,  I  was  thinking  about  something,"  I  an- 
swered. The  wire  gave  with  a  little  snap  and  he 
began  to  ease  the  cork.  Was  I  to  let  the  light 
pass  me  by  for  the  sake  of  ...  of  Fox,  for 
instance,  who  trusted  me?  Well,  let  Fox  go. 
And  Churchill  and  what  Churchill  stood  for;  the 
probity;  the  greatness  and  the  spirit  of  the  past 
[285] 


THE    INHERITORS 

from  which  had  sprung  my  conscience  and  the 
consciences  of  the  sleeping  millions  around  me 
— the  woman  at  the  poultry  show  with  her 
farmers  and  shopkeepers.     Let  them  go  too. 

Soane  put  into  my  hand  one  of  his  charged 
glasses.  He  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  infinite,  a 
forgotten  shape.  I  sat  down  at  the  desk  opposite 
him. 

"  Deuced  good  idea,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "  to 
stop  the  confounded  presses  and  spoof  old  Fox. 
He's  up  to  some  devilry.  And,  by  Jove,  I'd  like 
to  get  my  knife  in  him;  Jove,  I  would.  And 
then  chuck  up  everything  and  leave  for  the  Sand- 
wich Islands.  Tm  sick  of  this  life,  this  dog's  hfe. 
.  .  .  One  might  have  made  a  pile  though,  if 
one'd  known  this  smash  was  coming.  But  one 
can't  get  at  the  innards  of  things. — No  such  luck 
— no  such  luck,  eh?  "  I  looked  at  him  stupidly; 
took  in  his  blood-shot  eyes  and  his  ruffled  griz- 
zling hair.  I  wondered  who  he  was.  "  //  s'agis- 
sait  de  .  .  .?  "  I  seemed  to  be  back  in  Paris, 
I  couldn't  think  of  what  I  had  been  thinking  of. 
I  drank  his  glass  of  wine  and  he  filled  me  another. 
1  drank  that  too. 

Ah  yes — even  then  the  thing  wasn't  settled, 
[286] 


CHAPTER   SEVF:NTEEN 

even  now  that  I  had  recognized  that  Fox  and 
the  others  were  of  no  account  .  .  .  What  re- 
mained was  to  prove  to  her  that  I  wasn't  a  mere 
chattel,  a  piece  in  the  game.  I  was  at  the  very 
heart  of  the  thing.  After  all,  it  was  chance  that 
had  put  me  there,  the  blind  chance  of  all  the 
little  things  that  lead  in  the  inevitable,  the  future. 
If,  now,  I  thwarted  her,  she  would  .  .  .  what 
would  she  do?  She  would  have  to  begin  all  over 
again.  She  wouldn't  want  to  be  revenged;  she 
wasn't  revengeful.  But  how  if  she  would  never 
look  upon  me  again? 

The  thing  had  reduced  itself  to  a  mere  matter 
of  policy.     Or  was  it  passion? 

A  clatter  of  the  wheels  of  heavy  carts  and  of 
the  hoofs  of  heavy  horses  on  granite  struck  like 
hammer  blows  on  my  ears,  coming  from  the  well 
of  the  court-yard  below.  Soane  had  finished  his 
bottle  and  was  walking  to  the  cupboard.  He 
paused  at  the  window  and  stood  looking  down. 

"  Strong  beggars,  those  porters,"  he  said;  "  I 
couldn't  carry  that  weight  of  paper — not  with 
my  rot  on  it,  let  alone  Callan's.  You'd  think  it 
would  break  down  the  carts." 

I  understood  that  they  were  loading  the  carts 
[287] 


THE   INHERITORS 

for  the  newspaper  mails.  There  was  still  time  to 
stop  them.  I  got  up  and  went  toward  the  win- 
dow, very  swiftly.  I  was  going  to  call  to  them 
to  stop  loading.     I  threw  the  casement  open. 

Of  course,  I  did  not  stop  them.  The  solution 
flashed  on  me  with  the  breath  of  the  raw  air.  It 
was  ridiculously  simple.  If  I  thwarted  her,  well, 
she  would  respect  me.  But  her  business  in  life 
was  the  inheritance  of  the  earth,  and,  however 
much  she  might  respect  me — or  by  so  much  the 
more — she  would  recognise  that  I  was  a  force  to 
deflect  her  from  the  right  line — "  a  disease  for 
me,"  she  had  said. 

"  What  I  have  to  do,"  I  said,  "  is  to  show  her 
that  .  .  .  that  I  had  her  in  my  hands  and  that 
I  co-operated  loyally." 

The  thing  was  so  simple  that  I  triumphed; 
triumphed  with  the  full  glow  of  wine,  triumphed 
looking  down  into  that  murky  court-yard  where 
the  lanthorns  danced  about  in  the  rays  of  a  great 
arc  lamp.  The  gilt  letters  scattered  all  over  the 
windows  blazed  forth  the  names  of  Fox's  innum- 
erable ventures.  Well,  he  ...  he  had  been 
a  power,  but  I  triumphed.  I  had  co-operated 
[288] 


CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN 

loyally  with  the  powers  of  the  future,  though  I 
wanted  no  share  in  the  inheritance  of  the  earth. 
Only,  I  was  going  to  push  into  the  future.  One 
of  the  great  carts  got  into  motion  amidst  a  shower 
of  sounds  that  whirled  upward  round  and  round 
the  well.  The  black  hood  swayed  like  the  shoul- 
ders of  an  elephant  as  it  passed  beneath  my  feet 
under  the  arch.  It  disappeared — it  was  co- 
operating too;  in  a  few  hours  people  at  the  other 
end  of  the  country — of  the  world — would  be  rais- 
ing their  hands.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  co-operating 
loyally. 

I  closed  the  window.  Soane  was  holding  a 
champagne  bottle  in  one  hand.  In  the  other  he 
had  a  paper  knife  of  Fox's — a  metal  thing,  a 
Japanese  dagger  or  a  Deccan  knife.  He  sliced 
the  neck  off  the  bottle. 

"  Thought  you  were  going  to  throw  yourself 
out,"  he  said;  "  I  wouldn't  stop  you.  Fm  sick  of 
it     .     .     .     sick." 

"  Look  at  this  .  .  .  to-night  .  .  .  this 
infernal  trick  of  Fox's  .  .  .  And  I  helped 
too  .  .  .  Why?  ...  I  must  eat."  He 
paused  "...  and  drink,"  he  added.  "  But 
there  is  starvation  for  no  end  of  fools  in  this  little 
[289] 


THE   INHERITORS 

move.  A  few  will  be  losing  their  good  names 
too  ...  I  don't  care,  I'm  off  .  .  .  By-the- 
bye:  What  is  he  doing  it  for?  Money?  Funk? 
— You  ought  to  know.  You  must  be  in  it  too. 
It's  not  hunger  with  you.  Wonderful  what  peo- 
ple will  do  to  keep  their  pet  vice  going  .  .  . 
Eh?  "  He  swayed  a  little.  "  You  don't  drink — 
what's  your  pet  vice?  " 

He  looked  at  me  veiy  defiantly,  clutching 
the  neck  of  the  empty  bottle.  His  drunken  and 
overbearing  glare  seemed  to  force  upon  me  a 
compHcity  in  his  squalid  bargain  with  life,  re- 
warded by  a  squalid  freedom.  He  was  pitiful 
and  odious  to  my  eyes;  and  somehow  in  a  mo- 
ment he  appeared  menacing. 

"  You  can't  frighten  me,"  I  said,  in  response  to 
the  strange  fear  he  had  inspired.  '*  No  one  can 
frighten  me  now."  A  sense  of  my  inaccessibility 
was  the  first  taste  of  an  achieved  triumph,  I 
had  done  with  fear.  The  poor  devil  before  me 
appeared  infinitely  remote.  He  was  lost;  but 
he  was  only  one  of  the  lost;  one  of  those  that  I 
could  see  already  overwhelmed  by  the  rush  from 
the  flood-gates  opened  at  my  touch.  He  would 
be  destroyed  in  good  company;  swept  out  of  my 
[290] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

sight  together  with  the  past  they  had  known  and 
with  the  future  they  had  waited  for.  But  he  was 
odious.    "  I  am  done  with  you,"  I  said. 

"  Eh;  what?  .  .  .  Who  wants  to  frighten? 
.  .  .  I  wanted  to  know  what's  your  pet  vice 
.  .  .  Won't  tell?  You  might  safely— I'm  off 
.  .  .  No  .  .  .  Want  to  tell  me  mine?  .  .  . 
No  time  .  .  .  I'm  off  .  .  .  Ask  the  police- 
man .  .  .  crossing  sweeper  will  do  .  .  . 
I'm  going." 

"  You  will  have  to,"  I  said. 

"  What  .  .  .  Dismiss  me?  .  .  .  Throw 
the  indispensable  Soane  overboard  like  a 
squeezed  lemon?  .  .  .  Would  you?  .  .  .  What 
would  Fox  say?  .  .  .  Eh?  But  you  can't,  my 
boy — not  you.  Tell  you  .  .  .  tell  you  .  .  . 
can't  .  .  .  Beforehand  with  you  .  .  .  sick 
of  it  .  .  .  I'm  off  ...  to  the  Islands — the 
Islands  of  the  Blest  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  be  an 
.  .  .  no,  not  an  angel  like  Fox  ...  an 
.  .  .  oh,  a  beachcomber.  Lie  on  white  sand, 
in  the  sun  ,  .  .  blue  sky  and  palm-trees — 
eh?  .  .  .  S.  S.  Waikato.  I'm  off  .  .  .  Come 
too  .  .  .  lark  .  .  .  dismiss  yourself  out  of 
all  this.  Warm  sand,  warm,  mind  you  .  .  . 
[  --^01  1 


THE    INHERITORS 

you  won't?"  He  had  an  injured  expression. 
"  Well,  I'm  off.  See  me  into  the  cab,  old  chap, 
you're  a  decent  fellow  after  all  .  .  .  not  one 
of  these  beggars  who  would  sell  their  best  friend 
.  .  .  for  a  little  money  ...  or  some  woman. 
Will  see  the  last  of  me     .     .     ." 

I  didn't  believe  he  would  reach  the  South  Seas, 
but  I  went  downstairs  and  watched  him  march  up 
the  street  with  a  slight  stagger  under  the  pallid 
dawn.  I  suppose  it  was  the  lingering  chill  of  the 
night  that  made  me  shiver.  I  felt  unbounded 
confidence  in  the  future,  there  was  nothing  now 
between  her  and  me.  The  echo  of  my  footsteps 
on  the  flagstones  accompanied  me,  filling  the 
empty  earth  with  the  sound  of  my  progress. 


'13921 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN 

I  WALKED  along,  got  to  my  club  and  up- 
stairs into  my  room  peaceably.  A  feeling 
of  entire  tranquillity  had  come  over  me.  I 
rested  after  a  strife  which  had  issued  in  a  victory 
whose  meaning  was  too  great  to  comprehend 
and  enjoy  at  once.  I  only  knew  that  it  was  great 
because  there  seemed  nothing  more  left  to  do. 
Everything  reposed  within  me — even  conscience, 
even  memory,  reposed  as  in  death.  I  had  risen 
above  them,  and  my  thoughts  moved  serenely 
as  in  a  new  light,  as  men  move  in  sunshine  above 
the  graves  of  the  forgotten  dead.  I  felt  like  a 
man  at  the  beginning  of  a  long  holiday — an  in- 
definite space  of  idleness  with  some  great  felicity 
— a  felicity  too  great  for  words,  too  great  for  joy 
— at  the  end.  Everything  was  delicious  and 
vague;  there  were  no  shapes,  no  persons.  Names 
flitted  through  my  mind — Fox,  Churchill,  my 
aunt;  but  they  were  living  people  seen  from 
above,  flitting  in  the  dusk,  without  individuality; 
[293] 


THE    INHERITORS 

things  that  moved  below  me  in  a  valley  from 
which  I  had  emerged.  I  must  have  been  dream- 
ing of  them. 

I  know  I  dreamed  of  her.  She  alone  was 
distinct  among  these  shapes.  She  appeared 
dazzling;  resplendent  with  a  splendid  calmness, 
and  I  braced  myself  to  the  shock  of  love,  the  love 
I  had  known,  that  all  men  had  known;  but 
greater,  transcendental,  almost  terrible,  a  fit  re- 
ward for  the  sacrifice  of  a  whole  past.  Suddenly 
she  spoke.  I  heard  a  sound  like  the  rustling  of 
a  wind  through  trees,  and  I  felt  the  shock  of  an 
unknown  emotion  made  up  of  fear  and  of  enthusi- 
asm, as  though  she  had  been  not  a  woman  but 
only  a  voice  crying  strange,  unknown  words  in 
inspiring  tones,  promising  and  cruel,  without  any 
passion  of  love  or  hate.  I  listened.  It  was  like 
the  wind  in  the  trees  of  a  little  wood.  No  hate 
.  .  .  no  love.  No  love.  There  was  a  crash 
as  of  a  falling  temple.  I  was  borne  to  the  earth, 
overwhelmed,  crushed  by  an  immensity  of  ruin 
and  of  sorrow.  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  the 
sun  shining  through  the  window-blinds. 

I  seem  to  remember  I  was  surprised  at  it.  I 
don't  know  why.  Perhaps  the  lingering  effect 
[294] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

of  the  ruin  in  the  dream,  which  had  involved  sun- 
shine itself.  I  Hked  it  though,  and  lay  for  a 
time  enjoying  the — what  shall  I  say? — usualness 
of  it.  The  sunshine  of  yesterday — of  to-morrow. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  the  morning  must  be  far 
advanced,  and  I  got  up  briskly,  as  a  man  rises 
to  his  work.  But  as  soon  as  I  got  on  my  legs  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  already  over-worked  myself.  In 
reality  there  was  nothing  to  do.  All  my  muscles 
twitched  with  fatigue.  I  had  experienced  the 
same  sensations  once  after  an  hour's  desperate 
swimming  to  save  myself  from  being  carried  out 
to  sea  by  the  tide. 

No.  There  was  nothing  to  do.  I  descended 
the  staircase,  and  an  utter  sense  of  aimlessness 
drove  me  out  through  the  big  doors,  which 
swung  behind  me  without  noise.  I  turned  toward 
the  river,  and  on  the  broad  embankment  the  sun- 
shine enveloped  me,  friendly,  familiar,  and  warm 
like  the  care  of  an  old  friend.  A  black  dumb 
barge  drifted,  clumsy  and  empty,  and  the  solitary 
man  in  it  wrestled  with  the  heavy  sweep,  strain- 
ing his  arms,  throwing  his  face  up  to  the  sky  at 
every  effort.  He  knew  what  he  was  doing, 
though  it  was  the  river  that  did  his  work  for  him. 
[  295  ] 


THE   INHERITORS 

His  exertions  impressed  me  with  the  idea  that 
I  too  had  something  to  do.  Certainly  I  had. 
One  ahvays  has.  Somehow  I  could  not  remem- 
ber. It  was  intolerable,  and  even  alarming,  this 
blank,  this  emptiness  of  the  many  hours  before 
night  came  again,  till  suddenly,  it  dawned  upon 
me  I  had  to  make  some  extracts  in  the  British 
Museum  for  our  "  Cromwell."  Our  Cromwell, 
There  was  no  Cromwell;  he  had  lived,  had  worked 
for  the  future — and  now  he  had  ceased  to  exist. 
His  future — our  past,  had  come  to  an  end.  The 
barge  with  the  man  still  straining  at  the  oar  had 
gone  out  of  sight  under  the  arch  of  the  bridge, 
as  through  a  gate  into  another  world.  A  bizarre 
sense  of  solitude  stole  upon  me,  and  I  turned 
my  back  upon  the  river  as  empty  as  my  day. 
Hansoms,  broughams,  streamed  with  a  continu- 
ous muffed  roll  of  wheels  and  a  beat  of  hoofs.  A 
big  dray  put  in  a  note  of  thunder  and  a  clank  of 
chains.  I  found  myself  curiously  unable  to  un- 
derstand what  possible  purpose  remained  to  keep 
them  in  motion.  The  past  that  had  made  them 
had  come  to  an  end,  and  their  future  had  been 
devoured  by  a  new  conception.  And  what  of 
Churchill?  He,  too,  had  worked  for  the  future; 
[296] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

he  would  live  on,  but  he  had  already  ceased  to 
exist.  I  had  evoked  him  in  this  poignant 
thought  and  he  came  not  alone.  He  came  with 
a  train  of  all  the  vanquished  in  this  stealthy,  un- 
seen contest  for  an  immense  stake  in  which  I  was 
one  of  the  victors.  They  crowded  upon  me.  I 
saw  Fox,  Polehampton,  de  Mersch  himself, 
crowds  of  figures  without  a  name,  women  with 
whom  I  had  fancied  myself  in  love,  men  I  had 
shaken  by  the  hand,  Lea's  reproachful,  ironical 
face.  They  were  near;  near  enough  to  touch; 
nearer.  I  did  not  only  see  them,  I  absolutely  felt 
them  all.  Their  tumultuous  and  silent  stir  seemed 
to  raise  a  tumult  in  my  breast. 

I  sprang  suddenly  to  my  feet — a  sensation  that 
I  had  had  before,  that  was  not  new  to  me,  a  re- 
membered fear,  had  me  fast ;  a  remembered  voice 
seemed  to  speak  clearly  incomprehensible  words 
that  had  moved  me  before.  The  sheer  faces  of 
the  enormous  buildings  near  at  hand  seemed  to 
topple  forwards  like  clififs  in  an  earthquake,  and 
for  an  instant  I  saw  beyond  them  into  unknown 
depths  that  I  had  seen  into  before.  It  was  as 
if  the  shadow  of  annihilation  had  passed  over 
them  beneath  the  sunshine,  Then  they  re- 
[297] 


THE   INHERITORS 

turned  to  rest;  motionless,  but  with  a  changed 
aspect. 

"  This  is  too  absurd,"  I  said  to  myself.  "  I  am 
not  well."  I  was  certainly  unfit  for  any  sort  of 
work.  "  But  I  must  get  through  the  day  some- 
how." To-morrow  .  .  .  to-morrow  .  .  . 
I  had  a  pale  vision  of  her  face  as  it  had  appeared 
to  me  at  sunset  on  the  first  day  I  had  met  her. 

I  went  back  to  my  club — to  lunch,  of  course. 
I  had  no  appetite,  but  I  was  tormented  by  the 
idea  of  an  interminable  afternoon  before  me.  I 
sat  idly  for  a  long  time.  Behind  my  back  two 
men  were  talking. 

"  Churchill  .  .  .  oh,  no  better  than  the  rest. 
He  only  wants  to  be  found  out.  If  I've  any  nose 
for  that  sort  of  thing,  there's  something  in  the 
air.  It's  absurd  to  be  told  that  he  knew  nothing 
about  it.  .  .  .  You've  seen  the  Hour? "  I 
got  up  to  go  away,  but  suddenly  found  myself 
standing  by  their  table. 

"  You  are  unjust,"  I  said.  They  looked  up  at 
me  together  with  an  immense  surprise.  I  didn't 
know  them  and  I  passed  on.  But  I  heard  one  of 
them  ask: 

"Who's  that  fellow?"    .    .    . 
[298] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

"  Oh — Etchingham  Granger    .    .    ." 

"  Is  he  queer?  "  the  other  postulated. 

I  went  slowly  down  the  great  staircase.  A 
knot  of  men  was  huddled  round  the  tape  machine; 
others  came,  half  trotting,  half  walking,  to  peer 
over  heads,  under  arm-pits. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  that  thing?  "  I  asked 
of  one  of  them. 

"  Oh,  Grogram's  up,"  he  said,  and  passed  me. 
Someone  from  a  point  of  vantage  read  out: 

"  The  Leader  of  the  House  (Sir  C.  Grogram, 
Devonport)  said  that  .  .  ."  The  words  came 
haltingly  to  my  ears  as  the  man's  voice  followed 
the  jerks  of  the  little  instrument  ".  .  .  the 
Government  obviously  could  not  .  .  .  alter 
its  policy  at  .  .  .  eleventh  hour  ...  at 
dictates  of  .  .  .  quite  irresponsible  person 
in  one  of    .    .    .    the  daily    .    .    .    papers." 

I  was  wondering  whether  it  was  Soane  or  Cal- 
lan  who  was  poor  old  Grogram's  "  quite  irre- 
sponsible person,"  when  I  caught  the  sound  of 
Gurnard's  name.  I  turned  irritably  away.  I 
didn't  want  to  hear  that  fool  read  out  the  words 
of  that  ...  It  was  like  the  warning  croak 
of  a  raven  in  an  old  ballad. 
[299] 


THE   INHERITORS 

I  began  desultorily  to  descend  to  the  smoking- 
room.  In  the  Cimmerian  gloom  of  the  stairway 
the  voice  of  a  pursuer  hailed  me. 

"  I  say,  Granger !     I  say,  Granger !  " 

I  looked  back.  The  man  was  one  of  the  rats  of 
the  lower  journalism,  large-boned,  rubicund,  asth- 
matic; a  mass  of  flesh  that  might,  to  the  advan- 
tage of  his  country  and  himself,  have  served  as  a 
cavalry  trooper.  He  pufifed  stertorously  down 
towards  me. 

"  I  say,  I  say,"  his  breath  came  rattling  and 
wheezing.     "  What's  up  at  the  Hour?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  I  answered  curtly. 

"  They  said  you  took  it  yesterday.  You've 
been  playing  the  very  devil,  haven't  you?  But  I 
suppose  it  was  not  off  your  own  bat?  " 

"  Oh,  I  never  play  off  my  own  bat,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  want  to  intrude,"  he  said 
again.  In  the  gloom  I  was  beginning  to  discern 
the  workings  of  the  tortured  apoplectic  face. 
"  But,  I  say,  what's  de  Mersch's  Httle  game?  " 

"  You'd  better  ask  him,"  I  answered.  It  was 
incredibly  hateful,  this  satyr's  mask  in  the  dim 
light. 

[300] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

"  He's  not  in  London,"  it  answered,  with  a 
wink  of  the  creased  eyelids,  "  but,  I  suppose,  now, 
Fox  and  de  Mersch  haven't  had  a  row,  now,  have 
they?  " 

I  did  not  answer.  The  thing  was  wearily  hate- 
ful, and  this  was  only  the  beginning.  Hundreds 
more  would  be  asking  the  same  question  in  a  few 
minutes. 

The  head  wagged  on  the  mountainous  shoul- 
ders. 

"  Looks  fishy,"  he  said.  I  recognised  that,  to 
force  words  from  me,  he  was  threatening  a  kind 
of  blackmail.  Another  voice  began  to  call  from 
the  top  of  the  stairs — 

"  I  say.  Granger !     I  say.  Granger     .     .     ." 

I  pushed  the  folding-doors  apart  and  went 
slowly  down  the  gloomy  room.  I  heard  the 
doors  swing  again,  and  footsteps  patter  on  the 
matting  behind  me.  I  did  not  turn;  the  man 
came  round  me  and  looked  at  my  face.  It 
was  Polehampton.  There  were  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  I  say,  what  does  it  mean; 
what  does  it  mean?  "  It  was  very  difficult  for  me 
to  look  at  him.  "  I  tell  you  .  .  ."  he  began 
[301] 


THE   INHERITORS 

again.  He  had  the  dictatorial  air  of  a  very  small, 
quite  hopeless  man,  a  man  mystified  by  a  blow 
of  unknown  provenance.  "  I  tell  you  .  .  ." 
he  began  again. 

"But  what  has  it  to  do  with  me?"  I  said 
roughly. 

"  Oh,  but  you  .  .  .  you  advised  me  to  buy." 
He  had  become  supplicatory.  "  Didn't  you,  now? 
.  .  .  Didn't  you  .  .  .  You  said,  you  re- 
member .  .  .  that  ..."  I  didn't  answer 
the  man.  What  had  I  got  to  say?  He  remained 
looking  intently  at  me,  as  if  it  were  of  the  great- 
est moment  to  him  that  I  should  make  the  ac- 
knowledgment and  share  the  blame — as  if  it 
would  take  an  immense  load  from  his  shoulders. 
I  couldn't  do  it;  I  hated  him. 

"  Didn't  you,"  he  began  categorically:  "  didn't 
you  advise  me  to  buy  those  debentures  of  de 
Mersch's?  "    I  did  not  answer. 

"  What  does  it  all  mean?  "  he  said  again.  "  If 
this  bill  doesn't  get  through,  I  tell  you  I  shall  be 
ruined.  And  they  say  that  Mr.  Gurnard  is  going 
to  smash  it.  They  are  all  saying  it,  up  there; 
and  that  you — you  on  the  Hour  ...  are 
...  are  responsible."  He  took  out  a  hand- 
[302] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

kerchief  and  began  to  blow  his  nose.     I  didn't 
say  a  single  word. 

"  But  what's  to  be  done?  "  he  started  again; 
"  what's  to  be  done  ...  I  tell  you  .  .  ,  My 
daughter,  you  know,  she's  very  brave,  she  said 
to  me  this  morning  she  could  work;  but  she 
couldn't,  you  know;  she's  not  been  brought  up 
to  that  sort  of  thing  .  .  .  not  even  type- 
writing .  .  .  and  so  .  .  .  we're  all  ruined 
.  .  .  everyone  of  us.  And  I've  more  than  fifty 
hands,  counting  Mr.  Lea,  and  they'll  all  have  to 
go.  It's  horrible  ...  I  trusted  you,  Granger, 
you  know;  I  trusted  you,  and  they  say  up  there 
that  you  ..."  I  turned  away  from  him.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  see  the  bewildered  fear  in  his 
eyes.  "  So  many  of  us,"  he  began  again,  "  every- 
one I  know  ...  I  told  them  to  buy  and 
.  .  .  But  you  might  have  let  us  know.  Gran- 
ger, you  might  have.  Think  of  my  poor  daugh- 
ter." 

I  wanted  to  say  something  to  the  man,  wanted 
to  horribly;  but  there  wasn't  anything-  to  say — 
not  a  word.  I  was  sorry.  I  took  up  a  paper 
that  sprawled  on  one  of  the  purple  ottomans. 
I  stood  with  my  back  to  this  haggard  man  and 
pretended  to  read. 

[303] 


THE    INHERITORS 

I  noticed  incredulously  that  I  was  swaying  on 
my  legs.  I  looked  round  me.  Two  old  men  were 
asleep  in  armchairs  under  the  gloomy  windows. 
One  had  his  head  thrown  back,  the  other  was 
crumpled  forward  into  himself;  his  frail,  white 
hand  just  touched  the  floor.  A  little  further  off 
two  young  men  were  talking;  they  had  the  air 
of  conspirators  over  their  empty  cofifee  cups. 

I  was  conscious  that  Polehampton  had  left  me, 
that  he  had  gone  from  behind  me;  but  I  don't 
think  I  was  conscious  of  the  passage  of  time. 
God  knows  how  long  I  stood  there.  Now  and 
then  I  saw  Polehampton's  face  before  my  eyes, 
with  the  panic-stricken  eyes,  the  ruffled  hair,  the 
lines  of  tears  seaming  the  cheeks,  seeming  to 
look  out  at  me  from  the  crumple  of  the  paper 
that  I  held.  I  knew  too,  that  there  were  faces 
like  that  everywhere;  everywhere,  faces  of  panic- 
stricken  little  people  of  no  more  account  than 
the  dead  in  graveyards,  just  the  material  to 
make  graveyards,  nothing  more;  little  people  of 
absolutely  no  use  but  just  to  suffer  horribly  from 
this  blow  coming  upon  them  from  nowhere.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  me  at  the  time  that  their 
inheritance  had  passed  to  me  ...  to  us, 
[304] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

And  yet,  I  began  to  wonder  stupidly,  what  was 
the  difference  between  me  to-day  and  me  yester- 
day. There  wasn't  any,  not  any  at  all.  Only 
to-day  I  had  nothing  more  to  do. 

The  doors  at  the  end  of  the  room  flew  open, 
as  if  burst  by  a  great  outcry  penetrating  from 
without,  and  a  man  appeared  running  up  the 
room — one  of  those  men  who  bear  news  eter- 
nally, who  catch  the  distant  clamour  and  carry 
it  into  quiet  streets.  Why  did  he  disturb  me? 
Did  I  want  to  hear  his  news?  I  wanted  to  think 
of  Churchill;  to  think  of  how  to  explain.  .  .  . 
The  man  was  running  up  the  room. 

'*  I  say  ...  I  say,  you  beggars  .  .  ." 
I  was  beginning  to  wonder  how  it  was  that  I 
felt  such  an  absolute  conviction  of  being  alone, 
and  it  was  then,  I  believe,  that  in  this  solitude 
that  had  descended  upon  my  soul  I  seemed  to 
see  the  shape  of  an  approaching  Nemesis.  It 
is  permitted  to  no  man  to  break  with  his  past, 
with  the  past  of  his  kind,  and  to  throw  away  the 
treasure  of  his  future.  I  began  to  suspect  I  had 
gained  nothing;  I  began  to  understand  that  even 
such  a  catastrophe  was  possible.  I  sat  down  in 
the  nearest  chair.  Then  my  fear  passed  away. 
[305] 


THE   INHERITORS 

The  room  was  filling;  it  hummed  with  excited 
voices.  "  Churchill !  No  better  than  the  others," 
I  heard  somebody  saying.  Two  men  had  stopped 
talking.  They  were  middle-aged,  a  little  gray, 
and  ruddy.  The  face  of  one  was  angry,  and  of 
the  other  sad.  "  He  wanted  only  to  be  found 
out.  What  a  fall  in  the  mud."  "  No  matter," 
said  the  other,  "  one  is  made  a  little  sad.  He 
stood  for  everything  I  had  been  pinning  my 
faith  to."  They  passed  on.  A  brazen  voice  bel- 
lowed in  the  distance.  "  The  greatest  fall  of  any 
minister  that  ever  was."  A  tall,  heavy  journalist 
in  a  white  waistcoat  was  the  centre  of  a  group 
that  turned  slowly  upon  itself,  gathering  bulk. 
"  Done  for — stood  up  to  the  last.  I  saw  him 
get  into  his  brougham.  The  police  had  a  job 
.  .  .  There's  quite  a  riot  down  there  .  .  . 
Pale  as  a  ghost.  Gurnard?  Gurnard  magnifi- 
cent. Very  cool  and  in  his  best  form.  Threw 
them  over  without  as  much  as  a  wink.  Out- 
raged conscience  speech.  Magnificent.  Why 
it's  the  chance  of  his  life."  .  .  .  And  then  for 
a  time  the  voices  and  the  faces  seemed  to  pass 
away  and  die  out.  I  had  dropped  my  paper,  and 
as  I  stooped  to  pick  it  up  the  voices  returned. 
[306] 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN 

— "  Granger  .  .  .  Etchingham  Granger 
.    .    .    Sister  is  going  to  marry  Gurnard." 

I  got  on  to  my  hands  and  knees  to  pick  up 
the  paper,  of  course.  What  I  did  not  under- 
stand was  where  the  water  came  from.  Other- 
wise it  was  pretty  clear.  Somebody  seemed  to 
be  in  a  fit.  No,  he  wasn't  drunk;  look  at  his 
teeth.  What  did  they  want  to  look  at  his  teeth 
for;  was  he  a  horse? 

It  must  have  been  I  that  was  in  the  fit.  There 
were  a  lot  of  men  round  me,  the  front  row  on 
their  knees — holding  me,  some  of  them.  A  man 
in  a  red  coat  and  plush  breeches — a  waiter — was 
holding  a  glass  of  water;  another  had  a  small 
bottle.  They  were  talking  about  me  under  their 
breaths.  At  one  end  of  the  horseshoe  someone 
said : 

"  He's  the  man  who  .  .  ."  Then  he  caught 
my  eye.  He  lowered  his  voice,  and  the  abomin- 
able whisper  ran  round  among  the  heads.  It  was 
easy  to  guess :  "  the  man  who  was  got  at."  I 
was  to  be  that  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  was  to  be 
famous  at  last.  There  came  the  desire  to  be  out 
of  it. 

[307] 


THE   INHERITORS 

I  struggled  to  my  feet. 

Someone  said:  "Feel  better  now?"  I  an- 
swered :  "  I — oh,  I've  got  to  go  and  see    .    .    ." 

It  was  rather  difficult  to  speak  distinctly;  my 
tongue  got  in  the  way.  But  I  strove  to  im- 
press the  fool  with  the  idea  that  I  had  affairs 
that  must  be  attended  to — that  I  had  private 
affairs. 

"  You  aren't  fit.    Let  me     .     .     ." 

I  pushed  him  roughly  aside — what  business 
was  it  of  his?  I  slunk  hastily  out  of  the  room. 
The  others  remained.  I  knew  what  they  were 
going  to  do — to  talk  things  over,  to  gabble  about 
"  the  man  who    .    .    ." 

It  was  treacherous  walking,  that  tessellated 
pavement  in  the  hall.  Someone  said :  "  Hullo, 
Granger,"  as  I  passed.    I  took  no  notice. 

Where  did  I  wish  to  go  to?  There  was  no  one 
who  could  minister  to  me;  the  whole  world  had 
resolved  itself  into  a  vast  solitary  city  of  closed 
doors.  I  had  no  friend — no  one.  But  I  must  go 
somewhere,  must  hide  somewhere,  must  speak 
to  someone.  I  mumbled  the  address  of  Fox  to 
a  cabman.  Some  idea  of  expiation  must  have 
been  in  my  mind;  some  idea  of  seeing  the  thing 
[308] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

through,  mingled  with  that  necessity  for  talking 
to  someone — anyone. 

I  was  afraid  too;  not  of  Fox's  rage;  not  even 
of  anything  that  he  could  do— but  of  the  sight 
of  his  despair.     He  had  become  a  tragic  figure. 

I  reached  his  flat  and  I  had  said :  "  It  is  I," 
and  again,  "It  is  I,"  and  he  had  not  stirred. 
He  was  lying  on  the  sofa  under  a  rug,  motion- 
less as  a  corpse.  I  had  paced  up  and  down 
the  room.  I  remember  that  the  pile  of  the 
carpet  was  so  long  that  it  was  impossible  to 
walk  upon  it  easily.  Everything  else  in  the 
room  was  conceived  in  an  exuberance  of  luxury 
that  now  had  something  of  the  macabre  in  it. 
It  was  that  now — before,  it  had  been  unclean. 
There  was  a  great  bed  whose  Hues  suggested 
sinking  softness,  a  glaring  yellow  satin  coverlet, 
vast,  like  a  sea.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
yellow  satin,  the  windows  draped  with  lace  worth 
a  king's  ransom,  the  light  was  softened,  the  air 
dead,  the  sounds  hung  slumbrously.  And,  in  the 
centre  of  it,  that  motionless  body.  It  stirred, 
pivoted  on  some  central  axis  beneath  the  rug, 
and  faced  me  sitting.  There  was  no  look  of  en- 
quiry in  the  bloodshot  eyes — they  turned  dully 
[309] 


THE    INHERITORS 

upon  me,  topaz-coloured  in  a  blood-red  setting. 
There  v/as  no  expression  in  the  suffused  face. 

"  You  want?  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
august  by  dint  of  hopelessness. 

"  I  want  to  explain,"  I  said.  I  had  no  idea 
that  this  was  what  I  had  come  for. 

He  answered  only :  "  You !  "  He  had  the  air 
of  one  speaking  to  something  infinitely  unim- 
portant. It  was  as  if  I  had  no  inkling  of  the  real 
issue. 

With  a  bravery  of  desperation  I  began  to  ex- 
plain that  I  hadn't  stumbled  into  the  thing;  that 
I  had  acted  open-eyed;  for  my  own  ends  .  .  . 
"  My  own  ends."  I  repeated  it  several  times. 
I  wanted  him  to  understand,  and  I  did  explain. 
I  kept  nothing  from  him;  neither  her  coming, 
nor  her  words,  nor  my  feelings.  I  had  gone  in 
with  my  eyes  open. 

For  the  first  time  Fox  looked  at  me  as  if  I 
were  a  sentient  being.  "  Oh,  you  know  that 
much,"  he  said  listlessly. 

"  It's  no  disgrace  to  have  gone  under  to  her," 
I  said;  "  we  had  to."    His  despair  seemed  to  Hnk 
him  into  one  "  we  "  with  myself.     I  wanted  to 
put  heart  into  him.    I  don't  know  why. 
[310] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

He  didn't  look  at  me  again. 

"  Oh,  that;'  he  said  dully,  "  I— I  understand 
who  you  mean  ...  If  I  had  known  before 
I  might  have  done  something.  But  she  came 
of  a  higher  plane."  He  seemed  to  be  talking 
to  himself.  The  half-forgotten  horror  grew 
large;  I  remembered  that  she  had  said  that 
Fox,  like  herself,  was  one  of  a  race  apart,  that 
was  to  supersede  us — Dimensionists.  And,  whea 
I  looked  at  him  now,  it  was  plain  to  me  that 
he  was  of  a  race  diflFerent  to  my  own,  just  as  he 
had  always  seemed  different  from  any  other  man. 
He  had  had  a  different  tone  in  triumph;  he  was 
different  now,  in  his  despair.  He  went  on :  "  I 
might  have  managed  Gurnard  alone,  but  I  never 
thought  of  her  coming.  You  see  one  does  one's 
best,  but,  somehow,  here  one  grows  rather  blind. 
I  ought  to  have  stuck  to  Gurnard,  of  course; 
never  to  have  broken  with  him.  We  ought  all 
to  have  kept  together. — But  I  kept  my  end  up 
as  long  as  he  was  alone." 

He   went   on    talking   in    an   expressionless 

monotone,  perhaps  to  himself,  perhaps  to  me. 

I  listened  as  one  listens  to  unmeaning  sounds — 

to  that  of  a  distant  train  at  night.    He  was  look- 

1 311 1 


THE    INHERITORS 

ing  at  the  floor,  his  mouth  moving  mechanically. 
He  sat  perfectly  square,  one  hand  on  either  knee, 
his  back  bowed  out,  his  head  drooping  forward. 
It  was  as  if  there  were  no  more  muscular  force 
in  the  whole  man — as  if  he  were  one  of  those 
ancient  things  one  sees  sunning  themselves  on 
benches  by  the  walls  of  workhouses. 

"  But,"  I  said  angrily,  "  it's  not  all  over,  you 
can  make  a  fight  for  it  still." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  understand,"  he  answered, 
*'  it  is  all  over — the  whole  thing.  I  ran  Churchill 
and  his  conscious  rectitude  gang  for  all  they 
were  worth  .  .  .  Well,  I  liked  them,  I  was 
a  fool  to  give  way  to  pity. — But  I  did. — One 
grows  weak  among  people  like  you.  Of  course 
I  knew  that  their  day  was  over  .  .  .  And 
it's  all  over/'  he  said  again  after  a  long 
pause. 

"And  what  will  you  do^''  I  asked,  half  hys- 
terically. 

"  I  don't  just  know,"  he  answered;  "  we've 
none  of  us  gone  under  before.  There  haven't 
been  enough  really  to  clash  until  she  came." 

The  dead  tranquillity  of  his  manner  was  over- 
whelming; there  was  nothing  to  be  said.  I  was 
[312] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

in  the  presence  of  a  man  who  was  not  as  I  was, 
whose  standard  of  values,  absolute  to  himself, 
was  not  to  be  measured  by  any  of  mine. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  cut  my  throat,"  he  began 
again. 

I  noticed  with  impersonal  astonishment  that 
the  length  of  my  right  side  was  covered  with  the 
dust  of  a  floor.  In  my  restless  motions  I  came 
opposite  the  fireplace.  Above  it  hung  a  number 
of  tiny,  jewelled  frames,  containing  daubs  of  an 
astonishing  lewdness.  The  riddle  grew  painful. 
What  kind  of  a  being  could  conceive  this  im- 
possibly barbaric  room,  could  enshrine  those  im- 
possibly crude  designs,  and  then  fold  his  hands? 
I  turned  fiercely  upon  him.  "  But  you  are  rich 
enough  to  enjoy  life,"  I  said. 

"  What's  that?  "  he  asked  wearily. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,"  I  shouted,  "  what  do 
you  work  for — what  have  you  been  plotting  and 
plotting  for,  if  not  to  enjoy  your  life  at  the  last?  " 
He  made  a  small  indefinite  motion  of  ignorance, 
'  as  if  I  had  propounded  to  him  a  problem  that  he 
could  not  solve,  that  he  did  not  think  worth  the 
solving. 

It  came  to  me  as  the  confirmation  of  a  sus- 
[313] 


THE    INHERITORS 

picion  —  that  motion.  They  hau  no  joy,  these 
people  who  were  to  supersede  us;  their  clear- 
sightedness did  nothing  more  for  them  than  just 
that  enabling  them  to  spread  desolation  among 
us  and  take  our  places.  It  had  been  in  her 
manner  all  along,  she  was  like  Fate;  like  the 
abominable  Fate  that  desolates  the  whole  length 
of  our  lives;  that  leaves  of  our  hopes,  of  our 
plans,  nothing  but  a  hideous  jumble  of  frag- 
ments like  those  of  statues,  smashed  by  ham- 
mers; the  senseless,  inscrutable,  joyless  Fate 
that  we  hate,  and  that  debases  us  forever  and 
ever.  She  had  been  all  that  to  me  .  .  .  and 
to  how  many  more? 

"  I  used  to  be  a  decent  personality,"  I  vocifer- 
ated at  him.  "  Do  you  hear — decent.  I  could 
look  a  man  in  the  face.  And  you  cannot  even 
enjoy.  What  do  you  come  for?  What  do  you 
live  for?     What  is  at  the  end  of  it  all?  " 

"  Ah,  if  I  knew  .  .  ."  he  answered,  negli- 
gently. 


[3X41 


CHAPTER   NINETEEN 

I  WANTED  to  see  her,  to  finish  it  one  way 
or  another,  and,  at  my  aunt's  house,  I 
found  her  standing  in  an  immense  white 
room;  waiting  for  me.  There  was  a  profusion 
of  light.  It  left  her  absolutely  shadowless,  like 
a  white  statue  in  a  gallery;   inscrutable. 

"  I  have  come,"  I  said.  I  had  it  in  my  mind 
to  say :  "  Because  there  is  nothing  for  me  to 
do  on  earth."  But  I  did  not,  I  looked  at  her 
instead. 

"  You  have  come,"  she  repeated.  She  had  no 
expression  in  her  voice,  in  her  eyes.  It  was  as 
if  I  were  nothing  to  her;  as  if  I  were  the  picture 
of  a  man.  Well,  that  was  it;  I  was  a  picture, 
she  a  statue.    "  I  did  it,"  I  said  at  last. 

"And  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"  You  know,"  I  answered,  "  I  want  my   .    .    ." 

I  could  not  think  of  the  word.     It  was  either  a 

reward  or  a  just  due.    She  looked  at  me,  quite 

suddenly.     It  made  an  effect  as  if  the  Venus  of 

[315] 


THE    INHERITORS 

Milo  had  turned  its  head  toward  me.  She  be- 
gan to  speak,  as  if  the  statue  were  speaking,  as 
if  a  passing  bell  were  speaking;  recording  a 
passing  passionlessly. 

"  You  have  dene  nothing  at  all,"  she  said. 
"  Nothing." 

"  And  yet,"  I  said,  "  I  was  at  the  heart 
of  it  all." 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  she  repeated.  "  You  were 
at  the  heart,  yes;  but  at  the  heart  of  a  machine." 
Her  words  carried  a  sort  of  strong  conviction. 
I  seemed  suddenly  to  see  an  immense  machine 
— unconcerned,  soulless,  but  all  its  parts  made 
up  of  bodies  of  men :  a  great  mill  grinding  out 
the  dust  of  centuries;  a  great  wine-press.  She 
was  continuing  her  speech. 

"  As  for  you — you  are  only  a  detail,  like  all 
the  others;  you  were  set  in  a  place  because  you 
would  act  as  you  did.  It  was  in  your  character. 
We  inherit  the  earth  and  you,  your  day  is  over 
.  .  .  You  remember  that  day,  when  I  found 
you — the  first  day?  " 

I  remembered  that  day.  It  was  on  the  down- 
land,  under  the  immense  sky,  amid  the  sound  of 
larks.  She  had  explained  the  nature  of  things. 
[316] 


CHAPTER   NINETEEN 
She   had   talked   expressionlessly   in    pregnant 
words;  she  was  talking  now.    I  knew  no  more 
of  her  to-day,  after  all  these  days,  after  I  had 
given  up  to  her  my  past  and  my  future. 

"  You  remember  that  day.  I  was  looking  for 
such  a  man,  and  I  found  you." 

"  And  you  .  .  ."I  said,  "  you  have  done 
this  thing !  Think  of  it !  .  .  .  I  have  nobody 
— nothing — nowhere  in  the  world.  I  cannot 
look  a  man  in  the  face,  not  even  Churchill.  I 
can  never  go  to  him  again."  I  paused,  expect- 
ing a  sign  of  softening.  None  came.  "  I  have 
parted  with  my  past  and  you  tell  me  there  is  no 
future." 

"  None,"  she  echoed.  Then,  coldly,  as  a  swan 
takes  the  water,  she  began  to  speak : 

"  Well,  yes !  I've  hurt  you.  You  have  suffered 
and  in  your  pain  you  think  me  vile,  but  remember 
that  for  ages  the  virtue  of  to-morrow  has  been 
the  vileness  of  to-day.  That  which  outstrips 
one,  one  calls  vile.  My  virtue  lies  in  gaining  my 
end.  Pity  for  you  would  have  been  a  crime  for 
me.  You  have  suffered.  And  then?  What 
are  you  to  me?  As  I  came  among  you  I  am  to- 
day; that  is  where  I  am  triumphant  and  virtu- 
[317] 


THE   INHERITORS 

ous.  I  have  succeeded.  When  I  came  here 
I  came  into  a  world  of — of  shadows  of  men. 
What  were  their  passions,  their  joys,  their  fears, 
their  despair,  their  outcry,  to  me?  If  I  had  ears, 
my  virtue  was  to  close  them  to  the  cries.  There 
was  no  other  way.  There  was  one  of  us — your 
friend  Fox,  I  mean.  He  came  into  the  world, 
but  had  not  the  virtue  to  hold  himself  aloof. 
He  has  told  you,  *  One  goes  blind  down  here.* 
He  began  to  feel  a  little  like  the  people  round 
him.  He  contracted  likings  and  dislikings.  He 
liked  you  .  .  .  and  you  betrayed  him.  So 
he  went  under.  He  grew  blind  down  here.  I 
have  not  grown  blind.  I  see  as  I  saw.  I  move 
as  I  did  in  a  world  of  ...  of  the  pictures 
of  men.  They  despair.  I  hear  groans  .  .  . 
well,  they  are  the  groans  of  the  dead  to  me. 
This  to  you,  down  near  it,  is  a  mass  of  tortu- 
ous intrigue;  vile  in  its  pettiest  detail.  But 
come  further  oflf;  stand  beside  me,  and  what 
does  it  look  like?  It  is  a  mighty  engine  of 
disintegration.  It  has  crushed  out  a  whole  fab- 
ric, a  whole  plane  of  society.  It  has  done  that. 
I  guided  it.  I  had  to  have  my  eyes  on  every 
little  strand  of  it;  to  be  forever  on  the  watch. 
[318] 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 
"And  now  I  stand  alone.  Yesterday  that 
fabric  was  everything  to  you;  it  seemed  solid 
enough.  And  where  is  it  to-day?  What  is  it 
to  you  more  than  to  me?  There  stood  Virtue 
.  .  .  and  Probity  .  .  .  and  all  the  things 
that  all  those  people  stood  for.  Well,  to-day 
they  are  gone;  the  very  belief  in  them  is  gone. 
Who  will  believe  in  them,  now  that  it  is  proved 
that  their  tools  were  people  .  .  .  like  de 
Mersch?  And  it  was  I  that  did  it.  That,  too, 
is  to  be  accounted  to  me  for  virtue. 

"  Well,  I  have  inherited  the  earth.  I  am  the 
worm  at  the  very  heart  of  the  rose  of  it.  You 
are  thinking  that  all  that  I  have  gained  is  the 
hand  of  Gurnard.  But  it  is  more  than  that. 
It  is  a  matter  of  a  chess-board;  and  Gurnard  is 
the  only  piece  that  remains.  And  I  am  the  hand 
that  moves  him.  As  for  a  marriage;  well,  it  is 
a  marriage  of  minds,  a  union  for  a  common  pur- 
pose. But  mine  is  the  master  mind.  As  for 
you.  Well,  you  have  parted  with  your  past 
.  .  .  and  there  is  no  future  for  you.  That  is 
true.  You  have  nowhere  to  go  to;  have  noth- 
ing left,  nothing  in  the  world.  That  is  true 
too.  But  what  is  that  to  me?  A  set  of  facts — 
[319] 


THE   INHERITORS 

that  you  have  parted  with  your  past  and  have 
no  future.  You  had  to  do  the  work;  I  had  to 
make  you  do  it.  I  chose  you  because  you 
would  do  it.  That  is  all  ...  I  knew  you; 
knew  your  secret  places,  your  weaknesses.  That 
is  my  power.  I  stand  for  the  Inevitable,  for  the 
future  that  goes  on  its  way;  you  for  the  past  that 
lies  by  the  roadside.  If  for  your  sake  I  had 
swerved  one  jot  from  my  allotted  course,  I  should 
have  been  untrue.  There  was  a  danger,  once, 
for  a  minute.  .  .  .  But  I  stood  out  against  it. 
What  would  you  have  had  me  do?  Go  under  as 
Fox  went  under?  Speak  like  him,  look  as  he 
looks  now    .    .    .    Me?    Well,  I  did  not. 

"I  was  in  the  hands  of  the  future;  I  never 
swerved;  I  went  on  my  way.  I  had  to  judge 
men  as  I  judged  you;  to  corrupt,  as  I  corrupted 
you.  I  cajoled;  I  bribed;  I  held  out  hopes; 
and  with  every  one,  as  with  you,  I  succeeded.  It 
is  in  that  power  that  the  secret  of  the  greatness 
which  is  virtue,  lies.  I  had  to  set  about  a  work 
of  art,  of  an  art  strange  to  you;  as  strange,  as 
alien  as  the  arts  of  dead  peoples.  You  are  the 
dead  now,  mine  the  art  of  an  ensuing  day.  All 
that  remains  to  you  is  to  fold  your  hands  and 
[320] 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 
wonder,  as  you  wondered  before  the  gates  of 
Nineveh.  I  had  to  sound  the  knell  of  the  old 
order;  of  your  virtues,  of  your  honours,  of  your 
faiths,  of  ...  of  altruism,  if  you  Uke.  Well, 
it  is  sounded.  I  was  forever  on  the  watch;  I 
foresaw;  I  forestalled;  I  have  never  rested.  And 
you     .     .     ." 

"  And  I  .  .  ."I  said,  "  I  only  loved  you." 
There  was  a  silence.  I  seemed  for  a  moment 
to  see  myself  a  tenuous,  bodiless  thing,  like  a 
ghost  in  a  bottomless  cleft  between  the  past 
and  the  to  come.  And  I  was  to  be  that  for- 
ever. 

"  You  only  loved  me,"  she  repeated.  "  Yes, 
you  loved  me.  But  what  claim  upon  me  does 
that  give  you?  You  loved  me.  .  .  .  Well, 
if  I  had  loved  you  it  would  have  given  you  a 
claim.  .  .  .  All  your  misery;  your  heart-ache 
comes  from  .  .  .  from  love;  your  love  for  me, 
your  love  for  the  things  of  the  past,  for  what  was 
doomed.  .  .  .  You  loved  the  others  too  .  .  . 
in  a  way,  and  you  betrayed  them  and  you  are 
wretched.  If  you  had  not  loved  them  you  would 
not  be  wretched  now;  if  you  had  not  loved  me 
you  would  not  have  betrayed  your— your  very 
[321] 


THE   INHERITORS 

self.  At  the  first  you  stood  alone;  as  much" 
alone  as  I.  All  these  people  were  nothing  to 
you.  I  was  nothing  to  you.  But  you  must 
needs  love  them  and  me.  You  should  have  let 
them  remain  nothing  to  the  end.  But  you  did 
not.  What  were  they  to  you? — Shapes,  shadows 
on  a  sheet.  They  looked  real.  But  were  they 
■ — any  one  of  them?  You  will  never  see  them 
again;  you  will  never  see  me  again;  we  shall 
be  all  parts  of  a  past  of  shadows.  If  you  had 
been  as  I  am,  you  could  have  looked  back  upon 
them  unmoved  or  could  have  forgotten.  .  .  . 
But  you  .  .  .  '  you  only  loved  '  and  you  will 
have  no  more  ease.  And,  even  now,  it  is  only 
yourself  that  matters.  It  is  because  you  broke; 
because  you  were  false  to  your  standards  at  a 
supreme  moment;  because  you  have  discovered 
that  your  honour  will  not  help  you  to  stand  a 
strain.  It  is  not  the  thought  of  the  harm  you 
have  done  the  others  .  .  .  What  are  they — 
what  is  Churchill  who  has  fallen  or  Fox  who  Is 
dead — to  you  now?  It  is  yourself  that  you  be- 
moan. That  Is  your  tragedy,  that  you  can  never 
go  again  to  Churchill  with  the  old  look  in  your 
eyes,  that  you  can  never  go  to  anyone  for  fear 
[322] 


CHAPTER   NINETEEN 
of  contempt.    .    .    ,    Oh,  I  know  you,  I  know 
you." 

She  knew  me.     It  was  true,  what  she  said. 

I  had  had  my  eyes  on  the  ground  all  this 
while;  now  I  looked  at  her,  trying  to  realise  that 
I  should  never  see  her  again.  It  was  impossible. 
There  was  that  intense  beauty,  that  shadowless- 
ness  that  was  like  translucence.  And  there  was 
her  voice.  It  was  impossible  to  understand  that 
I  was  never  to  see  her  again,  never  to  hear  her 
voice,  after  this. 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  time  and  I  said  noth- 
ing— nothing  at  all.  It  was  the  thought  of  her 
making  Fox's  end;  of  her  sitting  as  Fox  had 
sat,  hopelessly,  lifelessly,  hke  a  man  waiting  at 
the  end  of  the  world.  At  last  she  said :  "  There 
is  no  hope.  We  have  to  go  our  ways;  you 
yours,  I  mine.  And  then  if  you  will — if  you 
cannot  forget — you  may  remember  that  I  cared; 
that,  for  a,  moment,  in  between  two  breaths,  I 
thought  of  ...  of  failing.  That  is  all  I  can 
do    .    .    .    for  your  sake." 

That  silenced  me.  Even  if  I  could  have 
spoken  to  any  purpose,  I  would  have  held  my 
tongue  now, 

[  323  1 


THE    INHERITORS 
I  had  not  looked  at  her;  but  stood  with  my 
eyes  averted,  very  conscious  of  her  standing  be- 
fore me;  of  her  great  beauty,  of  her  great  glory. 

After  a  long  time  I  went  away.  I  never  saw 
her  again.  I  never  saw  any  one  of  them  all 
again.  Fox  was  dead  and  Churchill  I  have  never 
had  the  heart  to  face.  That  v/as  the  end  of  all 
that  part  of  my  life.  It  passed  away  and  left  me 
only  a  consciousness  of  weakness  and  .  .  . 
and  regrets.  She  remains.  One  recognises  her 
hand  in  the  trend  of  events.  Well,  it  is  not  a 
very  gay  world.  Gurnard,  they  say,  is  the  type 
of  the  age — of  its  spirit.  And  they  say  that  I, 
the  Granger  of  Etchingham,  am  not  on  terms 
with  my  brother-in-law. 


[324] 


THZ  COUNTRY  UFt  PRXM 

CAftDSM  CIT7,  N.  Y. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


23May61Jo 


APR     9  1969  48' 


^gCEfVED 


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